Keys and Chains
by Rainsaber
Summary: Four years have passed since the tragedy of a double homicide and undetermined death that struck two of society's well known families. Two ghosts from that night resurface in the present, one hell-bent on finishing what he started. Holmes/OC pairing.
1. Something Strange

**Synopsis:** Obsession makes for a dangerous and destructive livelihood. Rejection will either stamp it out or, in the worst-case scenario, fuel it. Four years have passed since the tragedy of a double homicide and undetermined death that struck two of society's well known families. The case, to Scotland Yard, appeared to have been solved and was officially closed. But two ghosts from that night resurface in the present, one hell-bent on finishing what he started. Case reopened. Holmes / OC.

**Author's Notes:** Set after the movie. Between double quotes, "…" is spoken dialogue. Between single quotes, '…' is sign language. Italics is a memory in long form and internal dialogue in short form. Also, I do apologize for the name of the villain if this bothers some people. I am not a twilight person, for those of you who share my sentiment, but it just happened that Jasper worked and nothing else did.

**Warnings:** Some disturbing subject matter as far as the cases go, but nothing explicit. Probably a warning for language is in order somewhere in the future. The romance won't be too intense either.

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock Holmes and anything affiliated with it belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The movie and such things are due to Guy Ritchie. I get no profit from this whatsoever. I own nothing, minus my original characters (mainly being the Andrews and Perry families).

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A piece of red hair fell into Caroline's eyes and she sighed. In the sunlight that shone through the window of the train her hair sparkled copper. The funny thing about red hair was that it had a mind of its own. Some days it wouldn't shine at all, taking on the guise of a dull red-brown. Some days it would shine so brightly that it would attract too much attention for Caroline's own good. She just hoped that today it would be tame. She didn't want to give the wrong impression. It had been hard enough finding a job within the past few months.

She couldn't really complain about the fact that her parents had gotten it for her…probably because they were tired of her self-imposed exile in Norwich and wanted her closer to home. And she couldn't really say that she wouldn't be pleased when she saw them again. She wouldn't admit it, but the past few years away from home hadn't done her any good. Their only correspondence had been through letters over the past four years and it practically killed her every time she had to seal another. But it had been necessary.

A working girl at twenty-seven who was also unmarried was just uncommon. And to the world who knew her as Caroline Andrews, she was dead. For the past few years she'd been Lydia Collins, an immigrant from Ireland looking for work. And besides physical appearances, it wasn't wholly a lie because her mother was of Irish descent. It hadn't been too hard for her to play the part at first because pretending to be someone else was a comfort. She could be whoever she wanted to be, but she settled for someone simple, someone boring because it was safe and would keep her safe.

Ideally, she'd like to be the one to visit her parents first, to minimize the amount of embarrassment that would surely follow in front of her new employer. That wouldn't go over well at all. Many people were familiar with her family, as well as the rumors about the inheritance that her father had waiting for his children. But the truth was that they weren't rich, just middle class. Her father had been adamant since the beginning of his career that any extra proceeds he earned would not be spent on luxury. So, he gave it away to charity, to the poor houses and orphanages so they could afford better food and keep an unpatchy roof over their heads.

Caroline smiled softly. She didn't mind the way they lived. She rather liked it. But, of course, it made it that much harder to attend parties and make friends in her youth when all the children your age wanted to do was boast and brag about how many Sunday dresses they had in a particular color. It hadn't been easy to swallow at first, but she learned along the way. She had turned to her four brothers and grown up a bit of a tomboy, always preferring boyish clothing to the frilly lace of girlish things. But, for her mother's sake, she remained socially acceptable and didn't cause any trouble for herself, if she could help it. She did miss William, Richard, and Thomas.

Carefully, so as not to draw attention to herself, she wiped at the tears in the corners of her eyes at the memory of Christopher. But she wouldn't dwell on him today because she couldn't afford it. Looking like a blubbering mess wouldn't seem like a good start to her new occupation as an interim landlady. And she certainly didn't want to appear weak.

From what Caroline could gather, from a distressed Mrs. Hudson, was that Sherlock Holmes was either a genius or a madman…or, Caroline worried, both. It was rather hard to believe that Mrs. Hudson could find no one to take the position for only a few months. Was this Mr. Holmes truly that reprehensible? She certainly hoped not. She didn't know if she had the strength for such a character. But she wasn't quite afraid of the man or this job either. Hell, she'd grown up with four brothers for God's sake! Caroline Andrews was no pushover. At least, she tried not to be anymore.

Her heart twisted then, and, not for the first time, loneliness struck her. How long had it been since she'd felt free enough to use her real name in public? People certainly didn't recognize her by appearance, so why did it matter anymore? Four years of hiding had been long enough, hadn't it? Lydia Collins, though, would have to endure for just a little while longer, just to be safe. She could be Caroline Andrews again, and soon, hopefully.

Then a hand touched her shoulder. She jumped, but sighed in relief when she saw the boy, who was her escort, from earlier. Dirty blonde hair, thin frame, a couple of teeth missing…judging from those facts alone could never tell you his life's story, but for Sherlock Holmes, she mused, it would have been more than enough evidence. She liked to let the secret lie. Sometimes the mystery of it all, the things left unsaid were the most interesting to her. Otherwise, if the picture was tampered with, it ruined the entire piece. Not for the first time, she asked herself what exactly she was getting into.

"We'll be arriving soon, mum," he said softly. "You'd best get your things together. I'll worry about the trunk as before."

Caroline nodded, shoving her belongings back into her satchel when she saw the station in the distance. She hadn't had much of a chance in the past few years to grow close to anyone, for her own safety. And she rather hoped that it would stay that way because it was normal for her. Disconnection had become a comfort. Companionship was why she cried herself to sleep every night for months after it first happened. Her father had been right. Trust was a delicate matter. Well, by now she'd certainly learned that lesson.

When the train stopped in London and they disembarked, Caroline followed the boy who seemed to know exactly where to go. He hailed a cab and stowed the trunk as soon as the driver stopped. Caroline allowed herself only one glance. Short, bald, healthy beard, clean hands, patches sewn into the knees of his pants if you looked closely, and bright wide green eyes…she liked him.

"Mornin' lass," he said cheerfully. "Have a nice ride did ye?"

Caroline nodded, politely. When the boy was finished stowing her things he helped Caroline into the cab and shut the door. She stopped, confused. He wasn't riding with her? She could vaguely hear the boy talking to the driver before the horses started moving. Perhaps he was riding up front? Instinctively she looked back through the window and noticed that the boy was, in fact, not riding along with her. Her heart sunk. She hadn't even the chance to bid him farewell…in her own way of course. But then again, the less people knew of her, the better.

The ride was a good hour, pleasant, and smooth. But it left Caroline tired when they finally reached 221b Baker Street. The driver helped her out of the cab and started helping her unload her things. She took a quick look at the building, committing the sight to memory and then, somewhat hesitantly, started up the stairs. One knock away and her life would change forever…well, perhaps not that dramatically, but there was no turning back from this point, no chance at returning to Norwich, no chance at going back to being a recluse. But, she realized, she owed it to herself to start this new life, to see this reinvention of herself through, even if it meant taking it all one-step at a time in the dark. So she knocked firmly on the door.

Within seconds the door was flung open, revealing a flustered and older looking woman whom Caroline could only guess was Mrs. Hudson. She didn't look upon Caroline with disdain as her other employers had at first meeting her in person. This time all Caroline could sense was relief.

"Good Lord, it certainly took you long enough! Come inside, come inside, dear!"

Quickly, she was swept inside the door, her arm instantly ensnared within Mrs. Hudson's. The interior was rather charming as compared to the austere exterior. It was warm, bright enough, and felt lived in, homely. Caroline bit back a grin that threatened to be set loose. It had been a long time since she'd been in a place like this. She could just imagine the changes her parents made to their home in her absence-

"I was afraid you'd reconsidered-thankfully you haven't. There are a few things you must know before my departure so pay attention—Second floor, Charlie, and to the left!"

"Right, mum," the driver said.

Caroline looked back and saw him carry her things up the stairs, wondering how Mrs. Hudson had gotten on a first name basis with a cab driver…perhaps his picking her up at the station had been planned. That was a comforting thought. But why go to all the trouble…unless there was trouble that Mrs. Hudson was trying to get away from. She turned back to the older woman and examined her more closely. Attributes aside, Caroline would bet that she was right. What that trouble was, of course, she could only guess.

"You're lucky I know a little about your condition. I can't say much for Mr. Holmes, though, or Dr. Watson for that matter."

Caroline's brows furrowed.

"Dr. Watson does not live here anymore. He was Mr. Holme's flatmate for a period of time. He has recently married and moved out of his old room. You'll be taking up his former residence. He'll be around frequently since he and Mr. Holmes are partners in their detective work. Speaking of which, if Mr. Holmes decides to actually take a case, members of the Scotland Yard may pop by now and again. Mr. Holmes is our only tenant…regrettably."

Caroline narrowed her eyes.

"He drove the others away if you must know. I won't deceive you, my dear, he is quite eccentric. I'll leave you to find out the rest on your own. Now, the kitchen is through there," she said, pointing to the back of the house. "If you have any questions about the daily routine ask the cook, but for heaven's sake don't pester him more than twice a day _at least_. I won't stand losing another worker in this house. Understood?"

'Yes, ma'am.'

Mrs. Hudson paused for only a second before continuing on. "Right. The dining room is through there. Your room is on the second floor to the left, Mr. Holmes is at the top of the stairs on the right. Follow me."

Mrs. Hudson led Caroline up fourteen steps until they reached the second landing. She assumed that the woman would turn to the left, showing her the room she'd be staying in, but sadly she was wrong. Mrs. Hudson banged on a door that Caroline had been told led to Mr. Holmes portion of the flat. Hastily she brushed a hand through her hair, praying it was tame and didn't look a mess, double checked the tarnished clip that held most of it back, and then hastily brushed at her skirt. From somewhere inside there was a loud crash and a shout. Caroline's eyes widened but Mrs. Hudson only sighed in annoyance. Boldly she opened the door and strode right in. Another loud crash sounded and Caroline could barely see what was going on in the dark room…having not moved an inch from the doorway.

"Really, Mr. Holmes! That poor animal does not deserve this foul treatment!"

"Does he _look_ like he minds, _Nanny_?—"

"And what in _bloody hell_ are you doing to yourself now?"

"You know, such language isn't fit for—"

"Flattery will not hinder my departure so you might as well shut up and listen."

Caroline heard Mrs. Hudson cross the room and then a shuffle from the floor.

"No-no-no, not the light!"

There was the sharp sound of curtains being drawn back and another loud shout.

Caroline slowly peeked around the door that was still ajar and took in what she could now see. The room was entirely in disarray, but it was by far not the pigsty like she expected it to be. There was some kind of order to it all…or perhaps that was just her own imagination at work, comforting her in this entirely new place with these entirely new and different people. They certainly seemed like characters, even the poor dog who was lying in a puddle of his own drool…a rather large puddle of drool. She spotted Mrs. Hudson in the middle of the room, standing over to the hunched form of a man sitting on the floor with mountains of books around him, fuming.

"Come in, dear," she called, waving her over.

Hesitantly, Caroline left the doorway and ventured inside, keeping her distance from the arguing couple. Though Mrs. Hudson had invited her in it was clear that she wasn't needed, yet. She shifted on her feet when the argument broke for that split second and Mr. Holmes' eyes landed on her. But then as quickly as they struck her, they moved away and back on their original target.

"_Mrs. Hudson, _how am I to do any work—"

"In the dark? Well, I frankly don't know, _Mr. Holmes_," she fumed. "Perhaps you've developed the eyes of an _owl_, though certainly not the bloody intelligence!"

"Language, _Nanny—_"

"Oh, _do_ shut up! Now, Mr. Holmes, this _is_ my replacement for the next few months—"

"No-she's-not," he said, trying to interrupt.

"Yes, she _is_! Despite your attempts to thwart _this_ girl from the job, she will be taking over for the allotted time that I have told you, time and time again—"

"What now? You're leaving? Impossible. I won't allow it."

"You insufferable man," she shrieked. "I am your landlady and may leave whensoever I choose to. _You_, least of anyone has a right to speak to me in such a manner—"

Mr. Holmes tried to interrupt but Mrs. Hudson continued.

"Being that you are CONSTANTLY behind in RENT _and_ with such INANE and UNLIVABLE habits that PERSISTENTLY drive anyone away from THIS BLOODY HOUSE!"

Caroline worked very hard to keep her quaking body still. Raised voices were a recent sensitivity of hers. She felt sympathy for the woman, sure. But she also felt sympathy for Mr. Holmes, despite not knowing him or his eccentricities. Mrs. Hudson was surely a nice woman and felt like a good-natured person. Whatever had happened to drive her to this point had Caroline vexed. Perhaps she ought to have asked her mother for a different kind of job…

"Holmes," a man at the door asked, striding into the room toward a flustered Mrs. Hudson's aide. She, in turn, strode towards the door, giving both men the cold shoulder. "Dare I ask, what have you done this time?"

"Incurred the wrath of Hera," Holmes muttered, darkly.

The man stopped short and furrowed his brows. "Mythology? Since when have you—"

"Recently."

"A case?"

"…maybe."

"Wait! Not the one about the suicide at the University?"

Mr. Holmes rolled his eyes. "There was _no_ evidence that it was—"

"Oh bloody hell—"

"That _note_ was not in his handwriting. How many times do I have to tell you? The L's and R's—"

"The man was distraught! There have been medical studies on this, Holmes."

"They are not proven fact."

"And who's to prove them? You?"

A silence followed. Something twinkled in Mr. Holmes' eye from Caroline's viewpoint. The man took a step closer and lowered his voice.

"Don't you even _think it—_"

Caroline wondered at the two men in the room. The newcomer was more put together than Mr. Holmes despite his easy frustration. She wondered if perhaps he was a military man or doctor by profession. He didn't have the pompous air of a lawyer, nor the stature of a business man. Perhaps this was the Dr. Watson that Mrs. Hudson had spoken of earlier…they did seem familiar and quite comfortable with one another, as if they had been acquaintances for years. Caroline had to bite back another smile. This was what she missed with her brothers.

Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat from the door. Mr. Holmes, to Caroline's silent amusement, took a discreet and quick step behind the other man who entered the room. Suddenly, both men eyed Caroline. Inwardly, she cursed her lack of invisibility and wanted to melt into the floor.

"Oh, forgive me," Dr. Watson said. "I didn't see you there, Miss—"

"You see," Holmes interrupted. "Your _marriage_ has dampened your skills of observation!"

Caroline's lips parted, more so in surprise than to—

"Her_ name_," Mrs. Hudson said, firmly. "Is Lydia Collins and she's a mute."

—speak. Caroline blushed, eyes wide. _Good Lord! She didn't have to put it so bluntly!_ It took every ounce of her strength to keep her hands at her sides and not to fidget in place. She opted, instead of viewing the shock she knew would follow from the revelation, to studying her own feet.

"Really?" Mr. Holmes asked.

"She will be acting as landlady in my stead while I'm away with family business, doctor."

Dr. Watson crossed the room towards Caroline, who couldn't help but look up in sudden fright. But she relaxed when she saw warmth there, acceptance.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Collins," the kind doctor said. "You…you _can_ understand what we're saying?"

Caroline nodded, thoroughly encouraged by such a small act of kindness.

"She isn't deaf. Now, don't be rude, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson squawked. "If I miss my train, _you_ are paying for the next one."

Mr. Holmes gave a strange glance at Mrs. Hudson and then turned to Caroline without moving from his spot across the room. Then, he did something that Caroline didn't expect.

'Good Morning, Madam.'

Caroline nearly gasped, and felt the shock plainly obvious in her face. His hands just…Did he really…?

'Hello?' she signed.

'Hello,' he signed back.

She couldn't suppress this smile, and quickly found that she didn't want to. They had accepted her and her shortcomings, which was more than what she could say about the people she met in Norwich, about the number of employers that she'd had previously. She couldn't even remember the last time someone had been so cordial to her and her condition. Perhaps this job was a new start for the better after all. She would have to remember to thank her parents.

"Good," Mrs. Hudson interrupted. "Now come along, Ms. Collins. You'll have more time to get acquainted later. I have mere minutes thanks to this one!"

And just as quickly as she had been swept into the house, she was being taken across the hall to her room and left to ponder over both the curious Mr. Holmes and the polite Dr. Watsoon. She barely had time to bid a 'Thank You' to them both.

"Do have a safe trip now—" Mr. Holmes called after them.

Mrs. Hudson popped her head in for one last split second. "For your sake it had better be!" she hissed.

Then, Holmes' door slammed shut.

* * *

**This is a story that may or may not be updated too frequently, all depending on its reception. I like the challenge of a Holmes / OC story and thought it might be interesting to see if it's even possible. I am a little worried about Caroline's character, so R & R! **

**Rainsaber**


	2. Something New

**Chapter Two - Something New**

Both men looked at each other, one expectantly and the other indignant. The dog snored under a table, ignorantly blowing bubbles to himself. John Watson would have laughed at the irony of it all, but that would have meant putting more fuel onto the fire of Holmes' foul mood. He'd come here at the behest of his old landlady…sadly, not for the benefit of Holmes, nor their weakened friendship since his marriage to Mary and the booming of his practice. He wasn't sure whether it was a comfort to him that Holmes already knew why he was here. But the fact that he had come back surely meant something positive, didn't it?

"She seems capable," Watson said after an awkward silence.

Holmes raised an eyebrow and threw his companion an annoyed look. "Capable is a general state of being, Watson, implying that the subject who is capable is capable of something _specific_…"

Watson smiled. _Typical Holmes._ "Terribly sorry, old boy. Capable of taking care of _you_."

Holmes scoffed and crossed the cluttered room to the settee and dropped down on it, but not before kicking over a pile of books along the way, muttering to himself. "I don't need a nursemaid."

"Truly," Watson asked. "Well, then you've successfully fooled me."

Sherlock hid his smirk and spoke to the air directly next to his friend before granting him the fleeting glance of acknowledgement. "Not a first…"

Watson scowled as he made a pathway over to his old chair, which he was pleasantly surprised to still find there, free of any mess that littered the floor and other pieces of furniture. He eased himself down and allowed himself a moment to take in the state of the rooms. Some plants in a forgotten corner were shriveled and disintegrated to practically nothing, and the state of Holmes' complexion, from lack of sunlight…or perhaps lack of keeping time, only confirmed Watson's suspicions about what his friend had been reduced to. Newspapers in mountainous piles, ink stains on Holmes' fireside chair, the clear odor of pipe smoke and perhaps something unmentionably stronger were all too painfully obvious to ignore. Holmes, however, seemed perfectly content to ignore all above-mentioned.

"Did you know," Holmes said. "That there was absolutely nothing in the papers today? _Nothing!_ That is simply an impossibility, Watson. We live in a densely populated city-Crime is not merely a fear but a reality. Practical and inevitable. Peace is such a farce."

Watson pursed his lips and adopted a quick contemplative look to hide the grimace that threatened to break free. It was easy to fall into talk like this, like the old times, but was it just as easy to go back to those days? Did Holmes want that? "Only because, with it around, you'd be out of a job."

"Occupation," he groused. "Occupations are fickle. The _game_ is what matters-how many _times _must I tell you this?"

The detective hadn't spared him another glance since that brief one a moment ago. Perhaps he had been wrong… "Again and again, and yet again, it seems."

Holmes said nothing in response but disappeared for a moment to get rid of his tattered robe…that had, somehow, ended up in pieces on the chandelier of the ceiling. Watson allowed himself a small chuckle once his friend was out of sight, grabbing a nearby paper out of habit. The sudden burst of happiness, however, popped like a child's little balloon and regret swept in the open window of John's heart. He looked around the room again and with each passing second his grief grew in size. He had missed this. And things had never deteriorated to this point when he was rooming with Sherlock. Hell, they would have had an argument over it, not spoken to each other for a day, and the mess would have been cleaned up before dinner so the two flatmates could sit amiably by the fire before bedtime.

Sherlock wasn't the type to hold a grudge for long, when it came to Watson, at least. But this seemed so much like Holmes either wanted to or may have learned how to and was struggling with keeping true to it. Truth be told, the fault lie with the both of them. Neither had really made any effort as far as their friendship was concerned. And truth be told, he had forgiven Sherlock even before he knocked on the door to 221b today. Maybe he had forgiven him long before that, but today he had finally accepted it. What mattered more to him though was whether Holmes had forgiven _him_.

"Obviously you are getting somewhere with this argument?" Watson called.

Holmes poked his head around the corner in confusion, buttoning a fresh shirt. "Hm? Ah, yes. Consider this: a conspiracy! One to keep all notice of crime out of public knowledge! For what, you ask? For secrecy of course."

Watson just sat with his mouth agape, blinking. "Holmes…?"

"It's purposeful, a scheme to lull us into a false sense of security—"

"Holmes—"

"Think about it!—"

"For the love of God, Holmes! I know how you are between cases but don't start stirring up phantoms of your own imagining. Now, you closed that case at the university yourself. Leave it be. You and I both know why you're re-examining it so you might as well put an end to it."

He sighed, tossing the paper aside, which was snatched up by the detective (causing a bit of a jump in the doctor at the sudden proximity) and rose to pull another set of curtains back, having enough of Holmes' erratic behavior and the rank smell of their old rooms. The detective winced at the light and stubbornly turned away from it, muttering again when Watson opened the window for fresh air. Watson admitted to himself that it was rather bright out today, but he was determined not to aid his old friend's possible vision impairment…or any future possible impairment, if he could help it.

"Besides," Watson continued. "Lestrade would never listen to you, not after that incident with the Duchess last week."

Holmes discarded the paper in disgust and simply started stringing chords together on his violin. "If you've come to invite me to another one of those useless and inane social gatherings that you call a 'party' you might as well desist and leave me to my lair of dissolute solitude."

Watson rolled his eyes. "You're being entirely too dramatic. And you enjoyed yourself for a few minutes, don't deny it!"

"A scarce few _minutes_ out of three droning _hours_ of complete and utter nonsensical excuses for human interaction. You'd gain a much more stimulating conversation out of a…"

Watson's brows rose. The plucking on the violin even stopped. Somewhere below, a cabbie called out to some people in the street. For half a second, the awkwardness returned, reminding them both of why they were there, and that this was not the normalcy they were used to.

"Out of a _what_, Holmes?"

"A monkey," he replied, decisively. The violin was put aside and his pipe was snatched up.

Watson sighed to himself. "You meant a mute, didn't you?"

"Perhaps you should have your hearing checked. I don't remember saying anything of the like."

Watson opened his mouth for a response but promptly closed it and changed tactics. "I didn't even know you knew sign language."

Holmes stared at the spot that the Collins girl had recently vacated, the gears in his mind turning. Watson knew an answer was not forthcoming and was left on his own to figure out his choices as far as possible conversation went. He briefly considered returning home now that Mrs. Hudson had successfully made her getaway. But that would have made this journey a waste, because he still didn't have a clear answer to take away. It seemed natural enough to turn his gaze to another part of the room for inspiration, but the unfortunate space that caught his attention made his eyes narrow and the familiar feeling of irritation rise.

"Holmes…"

"Hmm?"

"Why is Gladstone lying in an unnaturally large pool of his own saliva?"

Holmes deadpanned for a moment and blinked before answering. "Why shouldn't he? He's a dog!"

* * *

Caroline watched from the window in the sitting room, curtains parted with a steady hand, as the carriage bearing Mrs. Hudson on her journey pulled away. She was on her own now. She smiled but bit her lip as soon as she turned around to face the house. The responsibilities and chores had been blazed through so quickly that Caroline was sure she'd forgotten something before she started making a mental list of them all. But from what she did gather they boiled down to three main things:

1. Collecting / badgering for rent money…when possible.

2. Cleaning and preventing Mr. Holmes from permanently damaging the house.

3. Make sure Mr. Holmes does not kill himself…though optional.

Mrs. Hudson painted him like he was an over-active three year old. And that thought had Caroline smirking to herself. If he were anything like how her brother, Thomas, used to be, when he was younger, then this job wouldn't be as hard as she thought. Being raised in a house of four brothers had its uses after all.

But then again, this wasn't a matter of childcare. And, for some reason, she had the distinct feeling that this was going to be nothing like what she'd done in Norwich for the past few years. There was no security blanket here. She was completely on her own, unfamiliar with practically everyone within a ten-mile radius. It was a scary thought, especially since this house was now dependent on her skills as a maid and a landlady…of which she was about to learn quite a lot about in a short period of time.

She closed the curtains and wandered into the foyer. She strained her ears and could faintly hear the two men still conversing upstairs. The bold colors in the wallpaper seemed to be staring her down, taunting her and saying things like 'Who are you, little girl?' and 'You know you don't belong here,' and more urgently 'Go home where you know you'll be safe.' Even the banister was cool to the touch. These were passing things, of course, but they were voices and feelings that weren't as easy to ignore.

She had been worried when she left, worried on the train, worried in the carriage, and now was no different. All of this was new. It was not a matter of inexperience, just a feeling of being unprepared. But the idea of managing just one tenant…even if it was a man who was a bit older than her, didn't seem so bad. It could have been worse. She could have inherited her aunt's tavern in Norwich and then she would have had a real problem on her hands. Briefly and quickly, she crossed herself and thanked her lucky stars before staring at where the door to her room would be.

There were bags and things waiting to be unpacked…and then she remembered how much she hated unpacking. She sighed and started in direction of the kitchen. She'd have to meet the cook sooner or later. Best to get introductions out of the way now that she had the courage to. Persevere and you shall reap your rewards, her father once told her. That memory was enough to lift her spirits to where they were supposed to be. Even though she didn't like to admit it, she couldn't wait to be wrapped in her father's loving embrace again. Every time it made her feel like a little girl, his little girl because she _was_ his only daughter. But she didn't mind that. Girls were dramatic. Girls were thick-headed and full of silly hopes. And, unfortunately, she was one of them.

* * *

"Experiment, by all means, Holmes, but not on the damn dog!" Watson shouted.

"I reiterate," Holmes replied, irritated. "Does it _look_ like he minds?"

Gladstone promptly snorted and went right back to sleep.

"You're impossible," Watson seethed. "And you wonder why you've driven Mrs. Hudson away? I'm surprised she's lasted this long!"

Strangely, Holmes was silent, and when Watson looked up he was as still as a stone. It was in that instant that he knew he'd struck a sensitive chord. He opened his mouth to apologize but nothing came out because what he had just vented was, in fact, true. It wasn't just Holmes' eccentricities that were driving people away, it was his inability to openly empathize with others. To those select few who knew him as well as possible, Holmes did care, if you knew where and when to look. But to the rest of the world, the 99.9 percent of the population, he was a cold and calculating machine in the visage of a man. He was a man who was incapable of changing his nature as a person, of adapting for the sake of keeping a relationship or friendship alive.

And Watson would have believed that had he not taken the care to know Holmes for who he truly was and not for who he was expected to be. He knew Holmes cared about a great many things, but he also knew that Holmes' cares were carefully guarded. He rarely let anyone in to see the state of things. And Watson had been one of those cherished few. So he knew. Watson knew what Holmes was like, but he also knew what society was like, and time spent with Mary, away from Holmes had changed him a little. It was if he'd just woken up from a long nap, remembering who Holmes was, remembering who he used to be. He would have apologized, but Holmes spoke over him, quietly but with force.

"I suppose I've driven you away as well?"

That, was a clear punch in the gut if Watson ever knew one. And…it wasn't undeserved either. "No," he sighed. "Holmes, I didn't marry Mary to escape from you. You know that. Love, it…makes a habit of sneaking up on you."

Holmes scoffed and wandered over to the window, stopping by the table that Watson knew had Irene's picture on it. Though Holmes did a good job at hiding it, Watson knew he turned the picture down…again, hands flying back up to hold the lit pipe between his lips.

"Mrs. Hudson will be back after a few months," Watson said. "This is her house after all."

It was true. Sure, Holmes had finally driven the poor woman to her limit but she wouldn't abandon her house, nor Holmes after all these years, Watson was sure of that. Sometimes all a woman needed was time away from it all to recover. And Mrs. Hudson was certainly one of the most resilient women that he'd met in his lifetime.

"Who is man without his flaws," Holmes whispered. "He's not a man at all, is he, Watson?"

His facial expression revealed nothing, but Watson heard the somber tone beneath the words that normally would have been laced with contempt or actuality. It had taken Watson a long time to perceive what lay beneath the layers that Holmes projected in front of others. Well, rather that Holmes let him see what lay underneath. It was a matter of trust, just as it was with any other sensible person, but trust to Sherlock Holmes was paramount. The detective didn't even flinch when Watson walked up to him by the window. He leaned his weight against the side of the window opposite Holmes, careful of his shoulder, which had been aching since the early morning. From that vantage point he began his silent study. And oddly enough, Holmes allowed it…or didn't care. Watson wasn't quite sure.

"Since when have you ever cared about what others think of you?" John asked.

No reaction. A long pause. He continued to stare out the window and fiddle with his pipe in his hands. Watson gritted his teeth in a moment's frustration and then let it pass away.

"Alright," he conceded. "Yes, Holmes, you are a mess of a human being. I could go through an endless list of traits, hobbies, habits, everything that makes you different from me, from those practical people on the streets…but I won't, Sherlock, because to do that would grossly understate the man that you are as a whole."

"Don't flatter me, Watson—"

"I'm only speaking the truth you dunce, now listen before I change my mind about this. You are a genius and you've proven that to me, time and time again, in all the years that we have known one another, through all the cases and events you've dragged me through. And out of it all you've done me the greatest service that any man could do to another."

Holmes was silent when Watson paused. The detective had finally turned his gaze on his old companion, and said companion fought hard not to squirm under the heated gaze. But Watson persevered, determined that before he leave this house all the issues for his part be laid bare.

"You saved me from myself," Watson admitted, straight-faced. "When all I had were nightmares from Maiwand and ghosts of a family to return to. I was an orphan in many ways and you opened your door. In some strange way, you reminded me of who I was, and who I wanted to be. It's because of you, old boy, that I am the one thing I feared I would never be after my service in Afghanistan. Happy. I am sorry, for the time that slipped by us. It's time that can't be taken back, but…we're here now. _I'm _here now because of the person that stands before me, a social outcast perhaps, but an exemplary example of a human being that I am proud to call…brother."

It wasn't an outright apology, but rather a pleading for one. Watson knew how pitiful it may have sounded but he was beyond caring. He trusted Holmes to get the hint. And, a moment later, Watson knew he did when Holmes looked away, clearing his throat, and blinking furiously. For a split second there was something in his eyes, and although it was short, it still brought a small smile to Watson's face.

"All these years," Holmes started, lighting his pipe. "And you still hold onto those silly notions of romanticism..."

Watson laughed, really laughed, this time. And a great smile burst forth on his face at the knowledge that with that simple statement, he'd been forgiven as well. "But you don't mind it."

"Perhaps not," Holmes said, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards.

"Lord knows how much stress and frustration that you cause me on a daily basis, but I did mean every word of it. You've taught me a great deal, old boy."

Holmes smirked, and for a brief moment his features warmed. He stuck the lit pipe in his mouth and sighed. "Too much it seems," he said, softly.

* * *

A quickly scrawled note lay on the counter that was littered with spots of flour and sugar. Caroline silently fumed as she wiped it clean, crumpled the note, and tossed it in the trash. After she was done she searched every cabinet and the pantry to take an internal inventory of what she was, now, to deal with for the next few months. A family emergency that required an indefinite span of absence…her arse.

Now it was also her job to buy the food and cook it. Mrs. Hudson would, no doubt, be furious when she returned. But that, thank God, wouldn't be any time soon. Should Caroline write to her? She did leave the address where she'd be staying in case Caroline had any questions. But that piece of information would surely cause her more distress than she deserved…at least from what she witnessed today. The poor woman deserved a reprieve. Caroline bit her lip and decided to keep it to herself for the time being.

The pantry door shut quietly. There was only enough food for about another day or so. She held her head in her hands, trying to stay calm. How was she supposed to do this? It was bad enough that she'd been thrown into an entirely unfamiliar household in a heavily urban environment she'd avoided for the past five years as an interim landlady when she had practically no knowledge of how to manage a tenant nor a household on her own. And now she was supposed to find the food markets on her own, purchase enough for the week on a budget…with her condition, and find her way back without getting mugged or killed?

The whole situation was completely ridiculous! Caroline started to giggle. Then she started to laugh outright before her throat started to spasm. As funny as it was, she clamped her mouth shut and forced herself to stop laughing before it started to hurt. After a few tense moments she sucked in air as her throat opened up again. Today it needed rest, and probably the day or the week after as well. She sighed, longing for the few days she had, every now and then, when she could actually speak full sentences without gasping for breath. But those days were coming fewer, after longer and longer spans of time of silence between. Her old fear of never being able to speak a single word or make a single sound ever again crept up. But she beat it back down with her father's smiling face. Raspy voice or not he would be beyond happy just to see her. And if she was good enough for him, then she was good enough for anyone else.

So she resolved herself to at least making an attempt at the markets today, while she had the time. Hopefully, she could be back before either men knew she was gone. As quietly as she could, she trudged upstairs, threw her satchel over her shoulder, stuffed some money into it, and snuck downstairs. She stopped at the front door and double-checked the presence of the house key. Then she threw a shawl over her shoulders and reached into her skirt pocket, grabbing a firm and comforting hold of a ring of sharp keys that she kept on her at all times. She fingered each one and found a few dull ones that would need sharpening soon. She latched onto the ring for a few seconds and kept it from making noise as she closed the door behind her as softly as possible. At least she wasn't completely defenseless…she was simply clueless.

* * *

"Just _try_ to find something to do that doesn't involve maiming others or yourself," Watson continued.

"Now where's the fun in that," Holmes asked, sifting through his various discarded and failed experiments on his desk. Once he found what he'd been looking for he started across the room…towards his mirror. Watson smirked and glanced out the window, finding the red head of Ms. Collins rather easily. When he turned back Holmes back was still to him.

"I'm serious, Holmes. These moods you fall into does no one any service. You've driven the worry out of Mrs. Hudson, but you'll never beat down my resolve—"

"So stubborn," Holmes muttered, shrugging on his overcoat and hat. "Do calm yourself, mother hen, you've nothing to fear. Care for a walk?"

"No, thank you though. I should be getting home soon."

"Mmm, pity."

Watson grabbed his cane after shrugging on his coat. No doubt Mary would be climbing the walls with curiosity once he got home. He readjusted the pocket watch attached to his vest and watched the detective as he stowed away any evidence that he had used the little vanity. Watson paid it no mind, making for the door.

"Do, at least, make an effort with her, Holmes."

"Yes, yes," the detective said with a dismissive wave.

"And, Holmes?"

The detective spun around with an innocent smile, "Yes, old chap?"

"Don't bother using the stair window. I doubt she'll notice you walking out the front door," he said with a smile, before disappearing down the stairs.

Holmes frowned and his shoulders sagged. "Spoilsport."

* * *

**My other extended fic is ending soon so after that is done I will be able to devote more time to this little sprout. Things will develop gradually between Caroline and Holmes for a little bit, so the main conflict won't come into play for a few chapters yet. For the beginning they'll be getting used to each other and hopefully not wanting to kill each other. Let the madness ENSUE! **

**More about Caroline's condition will be forthcoming once Holmes decides to let us all in. Maybe reviews will nudge him along...? **_**I'm**_** certainly not above bribery :)**

**-Rainsaber**


	3. Something Familiar

_**Big thanks to all who reviewed so far: PhantomProducer, ShellyStark, x-Pick'n'Mix-x, Buffy Sparrow, bgm76, and garnet 86. And also thanks to all my readers! Sorry for the long wait, but here's chapter 3. Let me know what you think.**_

**Chapter Three - Something Familiar**

The markets were a different experience on her own. The last time she could remember coming here was with her mother when she was eighteen. Things had certainly changed. The number of vendors had increased and it was almost impossible to navigate through the crowd of people. Somehow, though, she managed. She quickly learned that all you needed to do with most of the sellers was to make the slightest indication that you wanted something and from there is was just a matter of pointing to the right item. Vegetables and fruit had been easy. The meat had been a little harder since it was in an actual butcher's shop and she had been forced to actually write what she wanted down for the butcher. He flushed red when he realized her condition and kept apologizing even until he ushered her out the door.

He had even been kind enough to lend her a basket to carry her things. She wanted to slap herself for not thinking of looking for something before she headed out, because without the butcher's generosity she would have had a very hard time opening the door to the fisher's place, let alone getting home without attracting attention. It was unfortunate that the butcher couldn't understand sign language but she supposed that was for the better. He would surely be surprised to see her in his shop tomorrow, not only with the return of his basket but also with it full of muffins as a token of her thanks.

Caroline would have smiled to herself at the prospect of tomorrow, but the sour look the fisher was giving her kept her from doing so. She looked around and noticed a few others in the shop besides her. Waiting, she supposed. It was getting a little late already, and she really didn't want to be here any longer than necessary. She thought of returning another day and making do for the next couple of days with what she already bought. But the fisher cleared his throat, eyes fixed on her by the door.

"Well?" the fisher said. "You want somethin'?"

Caroline hesitated for a second before pointing to the fish she saw on the table behind the counter. It looked about the kind and size she needed. She then held up two fingers, indicating she wanted two of them. But the man's oblivious look confused her.

"Do you want something?" he asked, a little gruff.

Caroline sighed and rummaged around in her satchel for a piece of paper and quickly wrote down what she wanted, offering the paper to the man when she was done. He took it, gave it a quick glance, and crumpled it up, throwing her note onto the floor. She barely had time to notice that he hadn't read what she wrote before his demeanor changed. Although he hadn't been overly welcoming before, he was now far from it.

"If you can't speak then you ain't got no business here, girl."

Caroline felt her face flush red and looked around the store to see if anyone had taken notice of her since the man's proclamation. One older gentleman shook his head and left. A younger girl and her younger brother openly stared at her. And the mother of said children didn't even acknowledge her before ushering them out the door. The fisher yelled out after them but none returned. Despite the heat in her face she felt something cold settle itself in her chest. It rendered her dead to the world until she was pulled from her childhood memories by the fisher's louder voice.

"You deaf too?" the man said. "I don't want your kind here!"

Kind. Kind? Seeing red was an expression that she understood well. She'd often seen it herself when one of her brothers had gone too far and underestimated her length of patience. Seeing it creep into the recesses of her vision didn't worry her because it was proof that after four years she was still, in some shape or form, the same person she feared she could never be again. Better memories, of her father's teachings, came to the surface and gave her the courage to act on her impulses and open her mouth. It was one thing to put her down, but to openly discriminate against people with her condition made her downright angry.

"Ill-litERacy," she rasped. "…doesn't g-give YOU-the…R-right to belit-tle mE."

Once she finished, her hand rose to massage some of the tension out of her throat. Tears threatened to fall but she was good enough to hold them back by now. She knew how pitiful her voice must have sounded after so much time, but she tried not to care. Volume wasn't important. She said what she needed to, at her own cost. She'd endure a little humiliation for it if it meant getting what she came here for.

"I'm sorry," the man said, coming around the counter. Caroline's eyes narrowed at the man's approach, thinking that it wasn't an actual apology she was hearing. He leaned in and spoke louder than before. "You're going to have to speak up."

In a spur of anger, Caroline slapped the man across the face and spared herself a second of satisfaction before she promptly turned on her heel and made for the door. But before she could reach it a fist of iron captured her arm and yanked her back. A little noise escaped her throat as she lost hold of the things she was carrying. They were soon forgotten once she caught sight of the menace in the fisher's eyes as he pulled her close.

"I don't let no little hussies like you have your way in my shop" he hissed.

The fight almost abandoned her when she tried, repeatedly, to get out of his grasp and failed. But when she got the slightest impression that his gaze was turning into a leer she clenched her teeth together and swung her knee upwards. The reaction was as immediate as she hoped. The man screamed and fell to the floor, holding himself and shouting obscene profanities at her. The spectacle was attracting attention from outside and Caroline had the sudden sense to not want to be around when a constable caught wind of what was happening.

As quickly as she could she gathered up the items that she had dropped and, instead of going out the front, she made for the back. Once she passed the door, however, she was confronted with an older woman with harsh features. Her cold eyes froze Caroline to the floor, but the wife of the fisher did not berate her or attack her as her husband had done. Wordlessly, she reached around Caroline, grabbed the fish that she had requested, and wrapped it before stowing it in with her other things. The wife of the fisher was gentle and swift, offering the ghost of a smile as she pushed Caroline out the door with a whisper.

"No charge," the woman said in her ear. "Five o'clock. The back door. Tuesdays."

Caroline turned around but the door closed and locked as soon as it had opened to let her out into the back alley. Whistles echoed in the distance, reminding her that she needed to get home before any more trouble found her. So she made her way towards the street and hailed a cab as soon as she saw one. She could spare the money to get home just this once. The last thing she wanted after that incident was to be further assaulted on her way home. The cabbie turned around to ask where she wanted to go, but to save him the breath she shoved a note under his nose that she had prepared from earlier this morning with the other one. He took it and didn't say a word before setting off. It was hard to believe this had only been one day so far.

Once inside the Baker Street residence, she snapped the door shut with the heel of her shoe and made her way to the kitchen, not bothering to retain the silence of the house. She made quick work of the fish when she set to preparing the evening meal. It wasn't until she began skinning the carrots that she felt a lump growing in her throat. She tried to ignore it. But in the end she wound up throwing the knife down and covering her face with her hands. She hadn't even gotten to the onions yet and her eyes were beginning to sting.

Ridicule was something she had been used to since she was a child. It was nothing new. And she had learned to understand it when her father told her that people often acted out of ignorance instead of compassion. But she knew she would never grow to accept it. Being reminded of her shortcomings wasn't what she wanted for the rest of her life. Why couldn't people educate themselves? Why did she have to take it upon herself to do it for them? Did she have to accept narrow-mindedness?

…she certainly didn't want to. But what could she do? Who was she to change the world's opinion? Finding her face dry was a surprise. And the loud knocking or banging at the door was too. A vague moment of worry passed through her mind before she answered the door. On the steps stood three men, two of them constables. Absentmindedly she began wiping her hands on her apron, even as she could feel the color drain from her face. There was no warmth to their features. In fact, all three of them looked a little disgruntled and a bit more serious than what Caroline wanted to assume was just a random house visit.

"Good evening, madam. Detective Inspector Lestrade," the third man said, flashing an official looking badge. "Might we have a few words with you?"

Caroline nodded and stepped aside to allow the men entry. In the sitting room the inspector told her to sit, which she did with a growing trepidation. She would have been stupid to think it wasn't about what occurred this afternoon. There was no getting out of what she did but how was she supposed to properly defend herself to these men with her notepad upstairs in her room? Moreover, would they even take the time to listen to her? Or would she be wasting her time as she had earlier this afternoon?

"I'll be honest with you, miss…?" Lestrade stumbled, waiting for an introduction.

Caroline's mouth hung open and she froze, uncertain of how to proceed. Despite her fidgeting hands she brought one up to tap at her throat. The Inspector didn't respond so she decided to take the same chance with him as she had with her tenant.

'I cannot speak,' she signed.

A long pause followed.

"I don't think she can speak, sir," one of the constables said.

"_Thank you_, Clarkey," Lestrade ground out. "We'll just do this another way. We've received reports of a woman, matching your description, who was seen in Mr. Harrington's fishery this afternoon. Do you deny that you were there?"

Caroline shook her head.

"You were there?"

Caroline nodded.

"And you assaulted Mr. Harrington?"

'Not without cause-' she began.

"Clarkey, can you understand her?"

The constable looked sympathetic. "No, sir."

Caroline tried to motion for her writing pad but none of them seemed to know what she wanted. Frustration was starting to override her embarrassment. Were these men truly that thick headed? Why hadn't any of them thought to ask her if she knew how to write?

"Madam," Lestrade bolstered on, silencing her with a hand. "He claims you struck him and stole the fish that you requested of him. Do you deny this?"

'I didn't steal-'

"Yes or no, please?" Lestrade asked, heated.

Caroline sat back with shock on her face. Was this Inspector only going to take her testimony in a yes or no manner? Didn't her opinion matter? Didn't she have a voice of her own? She thought of speaking up again, as she had earlier this afternoon, but she worried about the damage she may have already done.

"Madam, did you or did you not commit the crimes I have described?"

"The answer is yes _and_ no, Lestrade," someone said.

Caroline turned to view the newcomer to the room and gaped. Mr. Holmes stood, leaning against the opening of the room as if he'd been there for the whole conversation. He fussed at some substance that seemed to be stuck to the side of his pipe, as if pulling the room's attention onto himself has been an afterthought. He looked up to four pairs of eyes fixed onto him, furrowing his brows in confusion for a split second. But he didn't turn his attention to her.

"Always the answer you never seem to be satisfied with," Holmes said. "Isn't it?"

"Mr. Holmes, this is a private matter-" Lestrade began, standing up.

"Ms. Collins is the landlady of this house. Any matters of legal issue regarding her involve me as I am her tenant in Mrs. Hudson's absence."

"Be that as it may, _your_ involvement at this juncture is not needed."

"What were the crimes? Assault and thievery, I believe?"

"Not that it concerns _you_, Holmes. Were you a witness?"

"Well if it doesn't concern _me_, then _I_ hardly think it matters." Holmes turned his back and started towards the staircase, making Caroline's heart skip a beat. Had he really seen the whole thing?

"This woman verbally and physically assaulted a vender today," Lestrade shouted. "If you've got evidence then you either bring it here or I bring you in for obstruction-"

Holmes about-faced with a curious look lacing his features. "Hm. Well, that's not entirely correct, now is it?"

Lestrade looked so red in the face that Caroline thought he might burst after another syllable. She hadn't noticed until now that her hands were fisted in the skirt of her dress and apon. Confrontation made her nervous. But this man was an inspector, surely he had some semblance of self-control despite Mr. Holmes' baiting.

"Sir," Clarkey questioned?

"How and why," Holmes asked, coming back into the light of the room. "Would a woman, who is obviously mute, _verbally_ and physically assault a man twice her stature?"

Lestrade paled as the room fell silent. But never one to take something lying down, especially in front of his own men, the inspector tried to brush past the indignity of the situation and get to the point.

"Enough games, Holmes," Lestrade hissed. "Were you a witness or not? I won't be wasting any of my time on your theories if you haven't got a solid story."

Holmes gave the inspector a cold glare. "I invite you to point out to me an instance in our history when I have not."

Lestrade sighed, retook his seat, and motioned for the detective to begin. Both constables exchanged nervous glances as Caroline took a deep breath to calm herself. Holmes relit his pipe and gave it a few puffs before he began retelling his account of the reported incident.

_"You fancy th'girl?"_

_ Sherlock turned and recognized the gypsy woman that he had previously employed. Somehow she had snuck up on him, even with all the jewelry attached to her clothes. But he returned his attention to the scene unfolding in the fisher's shop._

_ "Maria, dear," he greeted tightly. "How are the little rascals these days?"_

_ "Yer 'irregulars're gettin' antsy, Mr. Holmes."_

_ Feign disinterest. Decrease present interest. Return to task at hand. "I wouldn't expect any less…"_

_ Maria hummed acknowledgement. "Should send a few of 'em after 'er if you've taken such a liking."_

_ Push disinterest. Act distracted. "Perhaps I will…"_

_ "Who is she?"_

_ Damn women. _

_Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away from the angry fisher to spare the gypsy woman a moment of attention. "Jealous, are we? I don't think your bedfellow, would appreciate you associating with singular men such as myself. He was the cause of his previous wife's death, you know. Do worry after yourself first, my dear."_

_The desired reaction was instant. Maria sputtered nonsense. Sherlock turned back to view the fisher's shop and watched as the man came around the counter. Reading lips was simple. Reacting to said words was difficult. Emotions flew easily. He learned a long time ago to control them, to detach oneself for clarity and for the advantages of the objective. As far as other people were concerned, the answers came easy. So he understood why his interim landlady struck the fisher._

"_Mm," Maria mused. "Got spunk she does."_

_His own reaction, however, wasn't as simple. When the fisher grabbed the younger woman he didn't register any change in his body because his movements toward the shop were measured and calm. On some subconscious level, he supposed, he was forcing himself to react to the crowd around him and not draw any attention to himself. But on an emotional level he was worried. Slightly. But he had less cause to worry than he originally thought because before he had the chance to defuse the situation occurring inside, the problem solved itself. _

"This gypsy woman," Lestrade interrupted. She can corroborate-"

Holmes pulled a face. "I'm _insulted_ you have to ask."

"Protocol. You saw Ms. Collins commit the crime?"

"Ms. Collins acted out of self-defense. And rightly so after the nasty bruise Harrington's left on her right arm."

Lestrade seemed to deflate after that. Caroline thought that perhaps the whole thing would blow over now that just about everything was made clear, but her stomach flipped when the inspector turned to her. "Let's see it, then."

Caroline didn't exactly know why, but her eyes shot straight to Sherlock Holmes. She didn't want to ask him to speak any more for her, but she also didn't want to endure any more humiliation today. Holmes gazed back, seemingly understanding her dilemma.

"Really, Inspector," Holmes chided. "There's no need-"

"Mr. Holmes, I trust you enough to do your side of things. Now, I'd be very much obliged if you allowed me to do mine?"

In short, the inspector's hands were tied. The law required him to see it done and there was no other way around it. All eyes turned to her as she took a moment to gather the courage to do the deed. Her left forearm had started aching and stinging once she returned but she didn't dare look at it. Either way, some divine power obviously had other plans for her. And, just to spite that being, she quickly unbuttoned the end of her sleeve and snapped it up her arm, refusing to look any where other than the far wall.

Both of the constables gasped, but the inspector and Mr. Holmes had more restraint. The hand-print bruise on her forearm was turning an ugly shade of red. Small spots of darkening purple had just started appearing. She suspected a few muscles may also have been pulled due to the strain present when she clenched her fingers together. Caroline hated feeling like some poor specimen on exhibition, but she bore it until the inspector seemed satisfied. When he was, she replaced the sleeve and sat in silence, not too keen on communicating with anyone.

Mr. Holmes also explained how the wife had given the fish to her in recompense after how her husband had treated her. Caroline wondered at how he knew that but didn't have the energy to ask. He saw the inspector out after Caroline was apologized to, also being promised that the man would be brought up on charges for the physical damage done to her person. She could only nod in response as the other constables followed him out the door, bearing looks of disgust.

When all was said and done she and Mr. Holmes were left to themselves in the darkening house. Shadows ran along the walls and floors at the setting sun. Caroline started in surprise, realizing how late it was getting and that dinner should have been served some time ago. She rose on unsteady feet and made her way towards the kitchen. But Mr. Holmes reminded her that, no matter where she retreated to, she would not be alone.

"You must excuse the inspector, madam. He is, normally, in possession of some sense of tact."

Caroline turned and nodded, finding some comfort in his softer tone. His hair, unlike before, had been combed back and set into a respectful arrangement. And it looked as if he may have changed his clothes as well. He looked…sharper, more refined than before. Was it because of her? Surely not.

'He was very…' She had trouble finding the right word to sign, to describe Inspector Lestrade, but Holmes filled in the blanks for her.

"Painfully oblivious? Brazenly ignorant?" He stopped to think, then answered with a straight face. "No. Maddeningly laughable."

Caroline chuckled a little.

Holmes smiled. And Caroline swore she could feel herself starting to blush. His smile was quite brilliant…and infectious. It startled her because it put her at ease, made her forget her troubles, and reminded her that there was a person standing in front of her, a person that could make this new and frightening situation bearable for a while.

"But not normally so crass either," he mused.

Caroline's brows creased.

"I am a consulting detective, my dear. The perks of such an occupation allow me the choice of whether or not I am to take the cases that are brought to me by either personal clients or the Yard itself. Hm. What month is it now?"

'April,' she signed.

"Oh," Holmes said with a look of sudden contemplation. "Well then. That's certainly enough cause for his displeasure."

'Is he a good man?'

"Honorable, yes. Dedicated would, perhaps, be the better term."

Caroline smiled as best as she could. The weight of the day settled itself in her center, barely reminding her that this morning she had gotten on a train, unaware of what trials awaited her. This morning she was an anxious and closed ghost of the self that she was beginning to feel again. She couldn't recall a time, in the past four years, away from home, when someone had made her feel at such ease, when someone had inspired happiness in her, however small. She was grateful for that and the hope it planted.

"Now, Ms. Collins," Holmes said, crossing the foyer to her. "I do believe you were in the middle of preparing dinner. Some coastal recipe, yes?"

Caroline blinked. How had he-

"Might I offer my assistance?"

She hesitated, wanting to ask him how he did such things, whether they were plain guesses, educated guesses, or strange knowledge that he gained through means unknown to her. But, she thought, there was plenty of time. And she did love to figure things out on her own…

'You've done so much for me already. Allow me to repay you.'

"You mistake my intentions. I was merely repaying _you_ this evening for my rude behavior earlier this morning."

Caroline pursed her lips. 'Then it would appear as if we are even.'

He smirked. "You hide pain very well, Ms. Collins. Your left arm will be of little use tonight. I possess two in perfect shape for your uses."

Her eyes narrowed and she studied Sherlock Holmes for a moment. He was clearly older than her…by how much she was unsure. But she would be willing to bet money on the fact that he was older than her oldest brother, William. He seemed like a gentleman, and had certainly acted like one after this morning. It made her wonder what had transpired or changed since then, because she hadn't been here to witness it.

'I've been told you are not normally so generous.'

"On certain occasions, you would be correct. This, however, is not one of them."

Surely, he was just trying to get on her good side, but whether it was true or not she welcomed the effort and help. She motioned to the kitchen behind her and he followed. As they worked she was happy to learn that he actually knew what he was doing when she asked him to do things. While the fish was cooking and they were preparing the side dishes she snuck a side-glance at him. He seemed engrossed in what he was doing. His jacket has been shed a while ago, and just in his vest and shirt she could tell that he was an athletic man of some sort. He was active in the things he chose to do. From what she gathered this morning he was also an intellectual…and more than a little eccentric.

He was secretive. Distrusting. Having followed her this afternoon was proof of that. But in the end he was also a gentleman and, dare she hope, understanding. He was one of the few people that knew how to communicate with her. And yet, she felt that he wasn't being entirely open with her. He kept things locked away like she did. He was guarded. In a cautious way, she thought. When he caught her looking she didn't look away. She let herself get lost for a while, exploring what he was willing to show.

Her conclusions turned out to be right. There was a darkness he was hiding, something he kept under close watch, maybe something that he never let loose. It was seductive, as if some small part of him were pleading to be found. Beyond those small traces she could see was a wall, preventing anyone from getting in or anything from leaking out. It surprised her because it was nearly like looking at a mirror image of herself years ago when she had first moved to Norwich. It gave her chills to see it rather than remember it.

'I'm not one for pity,' she motioned.

"Of course not," he responded.

Indifference was what he offered, contradicting everything she had just surmised, but she knew better than to doubt herself. 'I don't see myself any differently.'

"As you shouldn't."

'You are willing to accept this? Me? As I am?'

He stilled and turned his body to face her, leaning against the counter. Silence followed as he took his turn to study her. She got the faintest impression that he was much better at this than she was. Though that thought should have frightened her, she didn't feel threatened. In fact, she wanted him to open her like a book. She wanted him to peruse the pages of her life and devour them. She wanted him to see her, to understand her, and to accept her for who she was. So she spent the last remaining moments in a small kind of agony, waiting for the judgment that he was to pass.

"I would certainly be a fool if I did not," he said.

Caroline blinked away the stings that returned to her eyes and replied with a smile. He returned to his task, gently mentioning that the fish was likely to be done by now. She moved quickly and began plating them both. When she was done and when they had both set the table for themselves, she reaches across and lightly touched his arm. Though the touch had only been a passing thing, it surprised them both. But she held a steady gaze and said the one thing she had been meaning to tell him all evening.

'Thank you.'

It was a simple thing to say and applied to many things he had done for her today, but she trusted him to see the truth she was trying to convey, that the thank you wasn't just for helping her prepare dinner, or for helping her avoid arrest and criminal charges on her first day back to London. He looked at her as he did earlier and told her all she needed to know with just his eyes. Verbalizing it wasn't needed to seal the matter, but more to assuage her constant fears. Either way, hearing it as well served a purpose.

"You're welcome, Ms. Collins."

They tucked in to the meal and afterwards she practically pushed him up the stairs so she could do the dishes by herself. As she washed them, she felt his absence, felt the large space pressing down on her. But the sounds she heard, of him pacing the floors above her brought her more comfort. It may have been only one day, but the hope that she had gained today had been worth all the trials. It made her feel as if she would actually make it out the other end of this with more than she thought she was going to. Having someone like Mr. Holmes as a tenant would surely make things easier. It made her smile all the way to bed later that night.

But little did she know how quickly her demeanor towards her savior was to change in the coming weeks.

* * *

**And from here on out for a few chapters is where the fun begins. Oh soooo wrong Caroline dear. You poor thing. **

**A note on Caroline: I suppose an explanation on her mute-ness is in order after this chapter. Her being mute is partially by choice and partially not. Her condition is in part because of an inherited thing (which you will see in her father much later), and because of what happened to her four years ago. I HATE not being able to spill the beans right now, but I figured I'd let Holmes do it for us. And believe me he's got lots of spilling to do. Hoarder. So please bear with me on this! I know it might not make a whole lot of sense right now but I promise it will. **

**The next couple of weeks are going to be really hectic for me since I'm auditioning for all of these graduate schools. Keep your fingers crossed for me! I promise to update at the soonest time possible…as long as my brain doesn't turn to mush in the meanwhile. Please leave reviews on your way out! **

**Rainsaber**


	4. That Bloody Violin

**A thousand apologies for the long delay. *meep* Rest assured that three months won't pass before the next update! I swear! Expect a new chapter in a couple of weeks, and if we're all lucky maybe a little sooner. As always big thanks to all my reviewers, readers, subscribers, and favoriters :) Ya'll keep me going! Enjoy!**

**Chapter Four – That Bloody Violin**

How someone…_anyone, _in their right mind, could stand to put up with this petulant child of a man was far beyond Caroline's realm of comprehension. Mrs. Hudson, she thought, deserved sainthood. The interim landlady opened her eyes, cursing the sun that shone through. Normally, she rose with the sun, but after the last two nights she was willing to start a new habit just to spite that man on the other side of her wall.

First it had been the cleaning. Mr. Holmes had made it rather clear that he didn't welcome her cleaning beyond his door. But the God awful smells were just too much to bear after finishing up with the second floor wash room. He'd been quite upset with her once he'd gotten home, but she could only bring a small part of herself to feel sorry for it. The man was either purposefully trying to get on her nerves or was, in fact, incredibly obtuse about general cleanliness.

The fact of the matter was that she had been hired to do a job, one that was starting to become more difficult every day. But she refused to back down just because she was a woman and a housekeeper. If he could live like such a bohemian, flouting Victorian society like he did in his own flat, then she certainly shouldn't have to fall back on such propriety to earn her wages. She would just have to become more creative.

Then there had been the strange noises. Sometimes they would be soft thuds. Sometimes they would be sharp shatterings of some sort of glass or pottery. Other times they would be loud gunshots, echoing from this house to the houses down on the corner of the street now that it was warm enough to keep the windows open. She marveled at how the Yard hadn't come running when that had happened, because she had only spared a second of shock before running up the stairs herself, fearing the worst.

What greeted her when she burst into the room, however, was not a corpse, just a man lost in his own little world…musing away while she stood in the doorway in disbelief. He only turned around and regarded her with confusion when she remembered to have the decency to knock. But that had only lasted a second before he turned around and fired again at the poor wall, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. She covered her ears and fled back down the stairs, and for the rest of the day, she decidedly ignored the rest of the loud noises. Her nerves were frayed by dinnertime.

And then…then it had been that bloody violin. The odd hours that man kept had been one thing, but the run around that they had with that stupid instrument had nearly made her tear her hair out in frustration. The first night she thought something had been wrong. No one in their right mind would be up at two in the morning playing the violin of all things. So she shrugged on her housecoat and trudged down to that man's room and knocked, loud enough to be sure that it was heard. The violin stopped, but she didn't hear anyone coming to answer the door. Perhaps she had made her point? She was tired. So she turned back to her room.

And the chords started again. As had happened in the fisher's shop, she acted upon her sudden compulsions and whipped around, throwing decency aside and the door wide open. But there was no one there. The fire was ablaze and there was no Sherlock Holmes in sight. She contemplated for a moment that she had imagined the whole thing, seeing the door to his bedroom shut, but once she had retreated to her own room in defeat and settled herself in, the innocent plucking that her ears picked up made her reconsider a great many things…especially when those disjointed chords turned into sharp melodious songs that couldn't be ignored.

* * *

Holmes peeked out from behind the back of the door that his landlady just closed, violin and bow clutched to his chest with a bewildered look. This girl was certainly bold when she chose to be. It made him wonder whether part of his job would be easier than he thought. It was certainly a possibility. Best to test it now and make plans for how to proceed and succeed at his task. Revenge along the way, for moving and rearranging some of his things, was purely coincidental. He smirked and brought the instrument up to his chin once more, with a picture of her in his mind, just as bewildered when she overheard a mixture of his earlier and brief bout of boredom.

* * *

Without knowing it, and Caroline was sure that he didn't know, Sherlock Holmes had done the worst thing possible. He inspired her. He inspired her to plotting sweet revenge, something she hadn't been stirred into doing since her younger years with her poor unfortunate and unsuspecting brothers. They had, after all, taught her their best. Lucky for Mr. Holmes, she had thought, that he knew nothing of what she was capable of. This could work to her advantage very well.

When he had left in the morning, she had snuck into his flat after resorting to picking the lock. Somehow her skeleton key had gone missing, and though she knew who the likely culprit was she just couldn't let herself take his retribution for a little cleaning lying down. So she bypassed all the cleaning and keeping she had done the previous day and settled for taking the violin and its bow from their sanctuary. It had only taken her about an hour to find the instrument, and then it took her another to decide on a good hiding place.

Once she had finished her task she returned to lock his door from the inside as it had been before. As she pulled the door shut she came face to face with Mr. Holmes on the stairs, but she betrayed no surprise. Instead, she calmly descended the stairs, signing a 'Good morning' to him as she passed. She tried to hide an infectious smirk at his confused face and subsequent looks of annoyance and suspicion, but if he happened to see her trying and failing to hide it…well, all the more for her to reap from.

* * *

If truth be told, he had been hoping for some kind of reaction. But did he imagine that she'd know how to pick locks? If he had then he wouldn't have bothered taking her key. What remained, however, in light of recent developments, was something far more serious. Sherlock Holmes missed nothing, especially in his own home. And it didn't even take a moments glance around his flat to know what was missing. It had been obvious when that girl waltzed by him on the staircase with a poorly concealed smile. He wasn't quite sure what infuriated him more at the moment, his own miscalculations or the fact that she had dared to do such a thing in the first place.

* * *

Caroline had only gotten half way through preparing lunch when she turned and nearly ran into that man in the kitchen. He caught the plate she dropped with ease, but continued to stare at her with what could only be described as restrained indifference. She carefully schooled her face and took the plate back, nodding her head in thanks.

"Stealing a man's instrument is more than petty larceny, Ms. Collins," he began. "It nearly borders, if not crosses said border, on injustice, now what have you done with it?"

Caroline cocked her head to the side, feigning innocence. 'Stealing?'

"It would not be wise to play the fool with a consulting detective, my dear. Where is it?"

Caroline quirked a brow, slightly surprised at the hint of annoyance she thought she heard. She knew that Mr. Holmes had been searching for the instrument for hours. The incessant running back and forth across the floor above nearly made her throw the instrument back at him, but she restrained herself and tuned it all out as she cleaned and prepared for the midday meal. Was it really that easy to get a rise out of him?

She didn't expect it to be that easy, given the treatment he must have given Mrs. Hudson. Had she gotten lucky and pulled at the appropriate heartstring? But Mrs. Hudson had to have thought of it before her. The woman had a bedroom on the first floor and these floors were not, by any means, impenetrable by sound. She could remember her older brother, Richard, lasting nearly an entire day before coming to find out what she had done with his rugby ball. So why was Sherlock Holmes giving up over a few hours search for a violin?

'I don't know what you are talking about-'

"_Clearly,_" Holmes interrupted. "You don't understand the gravity of what you've done. _Lives_ will suffer in it's absence-"

'Because of a violin?-'

"I need it to think!" he exclaimed.

'I need it to sleep,' she signed, emphatically, eyes wide and chest puffing up with indignation. But then she stopped to think of what she had just said and tried to backtrack. 'Rather, to-to keep you from playing it so I _can_ sleep!'

A gleam settled into Holmes's eyes, one that frightened Caroline when he started walking towards her. She stumbled backwards, bumping into the ledge of the counter as he continued to advance. "What I do, my dear, is entirely dependent on a specific muscle in our craniums that I am starting to suspect you've neglected in yourself recently. _That instrument_-"

A spark of fear burst in her chest, but she remembered that this was her eccentric tenant, not…_him_. But that realization didn't make her any more comfortable. While Mr. Holmes ranted on about the importance of the instrument, her eyes shot to the floor and she refused to look up. It was childish and submissive, but she didn't want the trembling to grow worse. And it certainly didn't help when Mr. Holmes stopped his rant and his feet. _He knows. He sees. You're weak. He won't listen to you now. Whatever hopes you had-_

A finger forced her chin up, but not her eyes. He wouldn't speak. Why wouldn't he speak? Well neither would she.

…Was he just going to wait there for her to say something? Certainly he didn't expect her to give in?

…He was trying to scare her. All she wanted was one thing-why couldn't he compromise like a normal human being?

…Something's going to burn soon and it won't be her fault. All she wanted to do was her job. Without sleep, no normal person can function! Why can't she just do her job, what she was being paid for?

Anger started building in her chest, giving her the courage to finally look at him. 'Can you promise me that you won't play it at nights anymore?' she signed with quick hands.

"I don't make promises that are impossible," he said, softer. "Let alone impractical."

'Then, lunch will be ready sooner if you would leave me to my work.'

She pushed past him and made it just in time to save the biscuits from the hot oven. But even when she placed the sheet on the stove she didn't turn around to acknowledge the man staring at her back. She had work to do. A few minutes later, she heard Mr. Holmes sigh and retreat to his rooms. A small victory.

* * *

"After all the hours you kept me awake I'm obliged to say you deserve it," Watson said, sipping his strong tea while he made a valiant attempt at trying to stoke the fire back to life.

On the other side of the room Holmes burrowed further into the comforts of his tiger rug, choosing to aim his heated glares at the wall instead of his poor colleague. "There's no reasoning with that Irish girl," he grumbled.

"So her heritage is cause for concern now?"

"They're notoriously stubborn and cunning. Two traits necessary for evil and wicked people-"

"Holmes," Watson protested. "Listen to yourself!"

"_AND_, she's a woman. That's the worst of it, old boy. Stubborn, cunning, _and illogical_. One would _think _that she would use it towards her own gains but she chooses to keep it from me when I am perfectly willing to negotiate a truce. After midday I offered certain hours and she declined. There is no logic behind it. None to be found, Watson. It's infuriating!"

Watson chuckled to himself, and not quietly.

Holmes poked his affronted head up at that. "This is not even remotely laughable-"

"Oh yes it is. And I am milking it for all it's worth."

"My Stradivarius is the victim of some diabolical plot and you laugh at my expense? You wound me-"

"Unnecessarily? No, Holmes, I don't think I do," he said, resorting to stabbing the charred remains that created a thick nest rather than a metal web for any future instances of a fire. "Lydia is no Adler, so stop complaining. I doubt she even has _that_ kind of woman in her. But if I can't be here to exact my rightful revenges when we were younger then I can at least gloat from afar with someone who clearly has more pluck than I ever did with you in that regard."

Holmes sniffed and turned back around as he reminisced. "You never had it in you to plot. It's not entirely your fault that you could never outwit me, though I never blamed you for not trying-"

Watson sighed, throwing the poker down onto the messy hearth. "You do know you're supposed to clean this out occasionally."

"Nanny used to."

"Well with the mess you've been burning in there, I'd have to say that duty falls to you, not to that poor girl downstairs. If she couldn't make headway with it I don't know why you'd think I could."

"Worked out the aggression you had with Mrs. Watson whence you came by, didn't it?"

Watson glared at the window for a moment, but eventually took a breath and replied with an "I don't know what you're talking about," which meant 'don't start unless you want to walk away with a bloody nose.'

To which Holmes answered with a mumbled "Hrmph," as he adjusted his position on the floor. Silence followed, and for a moment, Watson basked in it. His argument with Mary was forgotten. Then the detective shifted around on the tiger rug again.

"Do light a fire, Watson. The room's grown cold."

"It's April."

"And raining."

Watson shook his head. "I don't dare light a fire after unearthing that charred mess, Holmes."

"It's merely collected soot, Watson. Completely harmless-"

"It's pink, Holmes. _Bright pink_."

"Oh," he said turning around. "Is it now? And only after four hours? Interesting."

Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to go off on a rant about the chemicals or processes used to create such a mess in the first place, Watson intervened to spare himself the torture that was sure to last for another hour of nonsense. "Ah," the doctor exclaimed, holding a hand for silence in the air between them. "I don't want to know."

"You're no fun today," he said with a pout.

"Want me to pester it out of her for you? Unless you've got something worth a bribe-"

Holmes gave him a pointed look, but Watson paid it no mind as he started collecting his things. "Do give me some credit before you go leaping to my rescue."

"You're sulking."

"And you're bouncing about looking for something to do after the amount of caffeine you've just consumed. You won't go back home because you're not ready to admit your wrongs-"

"Holmes," Watson warned. A calming pause. Then, a realization. "You're deflecting the issue. Perhaps I should-"

"Although you, my dear Boswell, are more versed in _their_ ways than I, I am obliged to say that I appreciate your concern. However, I must decline."

"Off on one of your moods then?"

"One can only hope not."

Footsteps toward the door. Fabric rustling. A coat. Umbrella left downstairs by the door. "Get some air, experiment on something, just…don't go for the case. I'm sure your violin will turn up soon, old boy."

The door clicked shut behind Watson as he left. Holmes' eyes brightened for a second, as he recalled Watson's parting words. Work to be done…but not the kind of work he needed at the moment. "Women," Holmes seethed.

* * *

Caroline dried the last dish, put it with the others in the top cabinet, closed the door and paused to stretch out her worn muscles. Her heels clicked on the floor in the darkness as she double-checked that the front door was locked. Then, after putting out the oil lamps on the first floor she ascended the stairs. Dinner had been a quiet affair, both spent in separate rooms, Mr. Holmes in his and hers in the kitchen. There would certainly be plenty to write about tonight.

Once she was done washing and dressing for bed she opened her trunk and pulled out a worn journal, mentally reminding herself that she would be in need of a new one soon. She sat down at the desk that in the corner of her room and opened to the last few pages, feeling excitement begin to thrill her itching fingers. Then she reached for her pen…and found that it wasn't there.

She looked under the desk to see if it had rolled off, but found nothing. She looked in the drawers and her trunk to see if she had mistakenly put it away somewhere, but found nothing. She checked the pockets of her clothes, her bag, under her bed, but found nothing. Giving up she put on her housecoat and descended the stairs to find another. And where the pens usually were, for messages and other non-descript business that Mrs. Hudson had shown her, was nothing. That man took all the bloody pens in the house!

The anger she felt from earlier in the day came back tenfold as she stormed back upstairs. She didn't knock, but stopped when she noticed the detective snoring lightly in a chair by the fire. Some of her rebuke dissipated when she saw him sleeping so peacefully. He almost looked…innocent. Shame she knew the cold truth.

…But surely they would be up here somewhere. There had to be a pen in here, of all places in the house. Why hide them from himself? So she tiptoed across the room, glancing back a couple of times to make sure he hadn't woken. Once she reached his desk she wasted no time in starting her search.

"You won't find them in there."

A soft little yelp of surprise escaped her. Caroline whipped her head around and gazed, wide-eyed into a fully awake and alert Sherlock Holmes. Then it dawned on her…he hadn't been asleep at all. He had been waiting for her to come up here. She felt her eyes narrow into a heated glare. But he merely leaned forward with a knowing smile.

"As I stated before, you have no idea of the gravity of your actions."

'It's a bloody violin!' she signed, with flailing arms.

"And this," he said, pulling something out of his trouser pocket. "Is a pen."

She made to lunge for it, but he made a noise of disapproval.

"A few nights is perhaps too soon for some," he said, twirling the pen between his fingers. "But plenty of time for me to determine what you truly value in life. Every night you pull out a journal and sit at the desk in the corner of your room. You write for approximately an hour and twenty minutes before retiring for the night, before you replace the journal in the top pocket of your trunk, out of sight from prying eyes during the day."

He paused, rising from his chair and walking over to her in the dim light. She watched, partially entranced and partially scared out of her wits. Had he been watching her? How could he know those things? Was this turning into something more-

"This writing instrument is far more than what it is on the literal level of existence. To you, Ms. Collins, it is an arm, a hand to make up for what you lack. This is your voice."

Her eyes stung but she refused to show anymore weakness. She had taken a violin. He had taken away a part of her livelihood. The exchange was far from fair. 'I have a voice, Mr. Holmes,' she signed with tense determination.

"Prove it to me, literally, and you'll get this back. Not only that but I shall acquiesce to your request concerning the Stradivarius, granted that it is returned in the condition in which it was taken."

Her mouth popped open in surprise. He wanted her to…He wanted her to speak? After what he had done for her a few nights ago he wanted her to…to what? What did he want her to say? What _could_ she say-if anything at all? Her voice wasn't something she could call upon at any second of the day. And when she had tried over the past few years it came out as a horrible-no. She was _not_ going to humiliate herself in front of him just to prove a point.

He regarded her for a moment more before pocketing the pen and turning his back on her. He walked towards his bedroom to retire for the night. "I will only wait one week, my dear. I think you'll agree with me when I say that that is quite generous. Have a good evening." He said it with a smile and closed the door after himself, leaving her in the quiet of the sitting room.

Shocked. Offended. Surprised. Frustrated. Angry. And, oddly enough, relieved. Relieved that he had requested that outrageous thing with respect. All of what he said was true, but it hadn't been said with prejudice…just truth. It made her feel confused, but not in a bad way, not about herself or their circumstances, just about him, about who the man was that she was housing with. But she didn't dwell on that thought. Caroline shook her head of Sherlock Holmes and his ridiculous proposition.

It was only after she went back to her own room for the night that she realized something was strange. She knew he was good at reading people, and had even wanted to be read, to be known when he had first taken a real look at her in the kitchen a few nights ago. But how did he know that she wasn't completely mute?

* * *

_Two days later…_

The sun still hadn't made an appearance. It was overcast, damp, and growing colder by the second. Spring, it seemed, didn't mind that it was late this year. Sherlock Holmes, unbeknownst to everyone he past ducked deeper into the comforts of his coat as he walked. It didn't take him long to get to his destination. And once he did cross the threshold of the bookstore, he allowed himself a second to pause and take in the occupants of the agreed meeting place. None of the boy's men were here, and that was a good thing. That meant he didn't know Holmes was on to him yet.

He winked at the shopkeeper at the other end and he nodded back. Then Sherlock walked down an aisle to the back of the store and waited. While he did he picked up a volume of poetry and paged through for old-time's sake. Once his employer arrived he replaced the volume and casually picked up another one.

"Shame isn't it," the employer asked. "That Keats fellow?"

"Quite," Holmes replied. "Seventy years, _such_ a shame."

"Do speak up, Mr. Holmes. I don't think the couple at the front could hear your sarcasm."

"None of the other patrons will hear us, I assure you."

The employer pursed his lips and laid his cane aside to sit on the nearby stool. "Has she spoken yet?"

"No, and I don't expect her to anytime soon. Quite the stubborn one you have."

"Getting to you is she?"

"You would be proud. I see little likeness to the girl you described when you hired me."

"Good. That is quite good," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Just ensure that things stay that way. I won't have your occupation stand in the way of her recovery. And to the other business I hired you for?"

"This is a clever fellow but I promise you that I _will-_"

"I don't need your promises Mr. Holmes. I need cold hard assurance that this will be resolved. And soon. The stakes for us are high enough as it is."

"I am aware. But in order for me to find this man you must give me time and your complete trust. These meetings will do you nor I any real service, not until this man is behind bars in Scotland Yard."

"How can you possibly expect me to do that when _that man's_-"

"Speak to her. Visit her, get her out of the house in fact."

"You mean away from you? What has she done, spilt ink in your tea?"

"She is far more than the delicate flower you paint her as," Holmes groused. He replaced his book on the shelf but turned around at the sudden thought. "She wouldn't, would she?"

The employer smirked. "Expect me within the next day or so." Then he left, leaving Holmes a minuscule amount more vigilant...or nervous when he returned home half an hour later. As if two days weren't bad enough, the next five were bound to be hellish.

* * *

**Moral of the chapter…don't mess with the violin or Holmes will get you. Nah, not really. Everything happens for a reason! Who was the mysterious employer at the end of the chapter? Any guesses? And can Holmes go a week without his violin? Or did he dig himself into a deeper hole with this one? Think Caroline will get him back big time? We shall see.**

**Had a block, but I FINALLY found my way into this chapter. I apologize again and profusely for the wait, but I think from here on out things will go a little smoother…and more often! I was a little worried with the amount of narrative in the beginning. Hope that wasn't too much of a bore. Review and let me know what you think of the new chapter!**

**-Rainsaber**


	5. Tea and Ink

***Extra long update to make up for my unexpected absence. Please find it in your hearts to forgive your wayward author. In case any of the family information gets too confusing when you come to it, there is vital information at the end of the chapter in the Author's Notes. I will be gone and without internet access for a week, so I thought I'd better update before I leave. BIG HUGS and THANK YOUS to all of my wonderful reviewers so far. Time and health haven't been on my side of things lately, but they are now, and as soon as I get back I promise to update more and keep up proper author/reader etiquette. Enjoy!***

Chapter Five – Tea and Ink

Principle.

Stubbornness.

Revenge.

…Take your pick.

The girl proved to be more devious than he gave her credit for, and his poor teeth were the unfortunate victims of that madness combined with a bout of his rare negligence. He thought his employer had merely jested when he spoke of the girl and her ways. But, having fallen prey to the craft of women before in his life, he set about to not take any chances. He inspected the tea every day, the soups, even the scones on one occasion, and had found no traces of ink or any other underhanded attempt to his person.

Briefly, on the scone occasion, he was reminded of Mrs. Hudson by a miniscule ache that came with the reconfiguration of the tea tray that the Collins girl brought up every day. He didn't miss the incorrigible woman…certainly not. What he missed was how things used to be. The stability. The security. The routine. The predictable nature that was the essence of his home. For all the unpredictability he encountered in his work, for all the thrill and excitement he derived from that, the predictable things about home, about Watson, …about his landlady were his comfort. And every man deserved his comforts in life.

Burned scones he could manage, but over steeped tea? That was insufferable in the world of Sherlock Holmes. The late hours had been wearing his character thin. He had, after all, been at this case for nearly the length of a month by now. Any closer to his goal? A painstakingly slow progress, but progress nonetheless. What he returned home to every night, however, was what he dreaded more than anything. Stagnation. Stubbornness. Woman.

Come hell or high water he would achieve their proposed arrangement, rather her proposed challenge, by the end of the week. And, after noting her obstinate moodiness at the declaration the next day, he resolved to take things further into his own hands. Carelessly slammed doors, heavy feet, the usual forgetfulness when it came to his experiments, and loud clearings of the nasal passages to expel any foul smells still stuck in his nose from the shipyards were how he decided to make his own objections of the situation known. He did still feel the absence of his Stradivarius, quite keenly some nights.

What he hadn't considered...and he would only admit to himself in private that she had been a clever girl…was the brandy. She was observant, _that_ he would consent her. She wasn't entirely a lost cause, and, if he dared recognize it, was a welcome challenge in light of what he originally thought he would be facing.

It was dark in his room when he returned that night. It was normal. The fire cast some light over the flat, shadows shrouding some corners in darkness still. That too was normal. Everything in its proper place, nothing moved or disturbed since he left it hours prior. All normal, and reassuring. Noticing that the brandy was a shade darker completely passed his mind, until he had a filmy mouthful swirling between his lips. Promptly, he spit the mixture out and brought the decanter closer to the light to inspect it. Had he not known of the girl's pension for foolishness, he would have feared for his life. Instead he let out a loud string of curses, quickly followed by the breaking of a glass into the fire and a heavy silence afterwards.

He fumed and plotted for a good while before succumbing to a small fit of laughter. Nanny had always threatened with food, but never followed through with them. Her revenge crimes she reserved for things like the laundry or proper heating for the upper floors. …yes, he admitted to himself, he missed the wretched woman. Already.

But he had his work. That was his constant in the absence of his normalcies. And part of his work included the recuperation of this girl's vocal faculties. He'd known before the end of the first day spent with her that she wasn't a complete mute, and further investigation proved his theory. Stolen glances of moving lips. Silent words overflowing from a mouth that seemed too used to forming them. Lydia Collins was quite the vocal girl, even with her hands doing most of the talking. But the actual speaking, the voice with how she communicated on a daily basis, he discovered was reserved only for herself, when she thought no one else would see.

Despite himself, he smiled. As cunning as she could be, her weakness was her underestimating of his nature. Watson was no innocent in his company, and due to experience, his brother in bond was rightfully more cautious, even around the person he trusted with his life. Lydia, poor Lydia Collins, was but a child in this game of theirs, blissfully ignorant of the lengths to which he would go to prove a point. Although this instance required more of him than proving theories and emerging victorious, it made him no less determined, more so in fact. The reason why…well, it was more than the girl's voice that was on the line.

But he would wait. He would work tirelessly. He would be patient. It was the essence of his work, of all his accomplishments, and future endeavors.

Presently, as he stood by the window looking out, his thoughts turned to the only other woman in his life that had bested him. And this little…domestic war they were having…Irene wouldn't have resorted to such…self-indulgent skylarking. There was always a hidden motive. With her there was always a material gain. As far as Holmes could see, with Lydia Collins, her gain was personal, something above all the pretenses and immediate comforts the world had to offer. Not so unlike his own approach, perhaps. But, he recounted, far below his capabilities.

He would have mused further on the subject, further on his interim landlady and why, despite their conflict, he didn't seem to mind her company and daily antics. But Watson's arrival and sudden hilarity upon sight of Sherlock's black teeth certainly hadn't helped things. For a moment, a crucial moment that might have led him down a path of understanding sooner, Lydia Collins disappeared from his mind's eye.

* * *

The fork that sailed so beautifully through the air struck the shut front door with a thud. A second after it stuck in the wood, it clattered to the floor. She growled aloud to loose the frustration that built up in her over the past few days. First it had been her sleep, then it had been her pens, and now…now? Her nerves were nearly as frayed as the day she left London all that time ago. The loud noises, the smells, the general lack of courtesy. How that evil man infuriated her! He wanted to test her, did he? Well poor him for trifling with her to begin with. She had much more up her sleeve than slipping ink in his brandy. She only wished she could write to vindicate the feeling of poetic justice she felt inside of herself at her cleverness. He would, by God, rue the day…

But without a pen, those feelings wouldn't amount to much. Oh, that man. She scoffed and stomped her way back to the kitchen sink, loudly washing and replacing dry dishes. This turned into more than reading her like a book, into knowing her as a person. This was now an invasion of privacy. Had he read her journals? Of course he had. If he'd been eavesdropping on her at night and had the gall to take her pens away, then what prevented him from satisfying his curiosity and reading her personal thoughts?

Caroline had to admit that the very idea of someone reading her prose, her poetry and ideas unsettled her. When she opened her journals she wrote for no one else but herself, and had never considered that it would ever be any other way. She organized her thoughts and feelings between those lines, between the words and letters. And they were hers to call her own, the only thing she looked forward to every morning when she woke and every night before she closed the bed curtains.

To have that taken away, just for a few days time, was hell on earth. It wasn't her fault that the scones ended up burnt and the tea over steeped because she was too distracted to focus properly. She had worked out a routine for herself over the past few years. And that delicate routine had saved her from the horrible moments of being left to her body and mind's own whims. Without a routine she had suffered. And her beloved aunt had realized that the moment she saw it…God rest her soul. That woman had been an angel sent from heaven just for her, when she needed an angel most in her life.

She sighed, thinking how lovely it would be to return to her journal, if only for a short time. She clenched her teeth inside her closed mouth at the thought of it. It had been damn irritating how Sherlock Holmes found out when she had either purchased or nicked a pen off someone. And how he managed to get a hold of it before she had a moment's peace to use the damn thing was the worst part of it all! All the trouble she had been put through because of this man's insufferable nature seemed the product of a bloody Shelly nightmare.

Maybe she bit off a little more than she could chew taking on Mr. Holmes in this silent war of theirs. Mrs. Hudson had warned her of keeping a strong hand, and Caroline was beginning to see the sheer necessity of that. That man would learn to respect another person's will if it took her the rest of her employment to do it. Maybe it was only her character she had in mind in this endeavor, but there was nothing wrong with that, was there? The man had certainly won her respect within moments of their first meeting. And to have it thrown back in her face in this manner? _Oh, he _will_ rue the day like my brothers before me, this I promise._

Someone at the front door disturbed her murderous thoughts, pulling her willing feet into a stalk that echoed in the parlor. Caroline yanked the door open with a look of pure fury on her face, daring the poor visitor to try her patience. But recognition dawned within a second and her face melted into a look of shock.

"Sister?" a meek voice queried.

Said fury disappeared, as if in the finale of a magic act, and instead brought her to joyful weeping. Her arms snatched the teenage boy from the front step and enveloped him into a crushing embrace. He responded in kind, loosing some nervous laughter at her repeatedly signing his name on his back.

'Thomas-Thomas-Thomas-'

"Calm down, sister," Thomas whispered in her ear. "I take it you missed me?"

She choked on a burst of laughter and happiness. How long had it been since she had heard his voice? Too long, she decided, because it had changed in her absence. Reluctantly she drew away and took a long look at him through her tears. His face had thinned out a bit from the chubby face of youth she remembered. The messy mop of brown hair was tamed and longer, curling about his ears and falling down to obscure his shining eyes. He was nearly as tall as her, and every bit as dashing as William and Richard had been when they were Thomas' age.

She took a calming breath and signed with shaking hands. 'You-look at you my darling little brother! You're so big! You've gone and grown up without me.'

Thomas gave her a crooked smile and sheepishly lowered his head. "I didn't mean to, sis. I wanted to visit but father-"

She laid a gentle hand under his chin and cupped his cheek in her hands for a brief moment. 'They needed you, father and mother both, I know.'

"But you," he said with years of regret. "You needed someone too."

'I had Auntie, silly.'

"William wanted-"

Caroline stopped him when she noticed some bystanders staring. Quickly, she tried to usher him inside, but he refused.

"Father sent me to collect you for tea, and to guilt you if I have to. But I hope I _won't_ have to?"

She smiled, bright and big. 'No, you won't.'

A moment later she was locking the front door to Baker Street and climbing into the cab that brought her little brother back to her. Despite the chill in the air she clutched to his arm during the ride instead of her thick shawl.

"William wanted to take a holiday, bring the family up to see you, but he said his practice would suffer. You remember how things were when you left?"

Caroline nodded, leaning her head on Thomas' shoulder and closing her eyes for a brief while, basking in the comfort she hadn't let herself feel in so long.

"Things were hard for us too. Richard had to take a second job. But he nearly quit once, just to have the chance to run up and see you. William would talk about you with father so often that it almost drew Richard mad. You'll be glad to know that father managed to knock some sense into him."

Caroline smirked.

"We all missed you, Caroline. Mother most of all. But the idea of seeing you has her cooking and cleaning a storm like she used to."

'That is a good thing.'

"Very good," Thomas said with a heavy undertone.

The rest of the ride passed in comfortable silence, brother and sister clinging to each other like they used to during a loud storm. How their positions had switched in a matter of a few years. The brother who sought his sister's comfort was now the one giving his own when she needed it. Neither commented nor protested the newfound relationship, for to be in each other's company was more than enough. When the carriage came to a stop, Thomas exited and paid the cabbie, turning to extend a hand to his sister and help her out, but he found her still sitting with the sides of her satchel somewhere in her fists. She was staring straight ahead, as if looking aside to the front of their home would steal something precious from her once again.

"Sis? What are you waiting for?" Thomas asked with a laugh.

She knew what was holding her back, but what surprised her was Thomas' innocence. He couldn't have forgotten? Could he have? She turned her glassy eyes to him and asked with her eyes. He rewarded her with a falling face and glimpse of distant pain as he broke their conjoined sight.

"I know it's difficult," he whispered. "But please come in. We've just gotten mother up and around again. It won't do her any good if she sees you, any of us…thinking about Chris. Let's be happy today, please?"

Caroline nodded with tears in her eyes. Pushing them back was difficult but she managed after tearing her brief glance away from the front steps. She reached out with a determination that Thomas remembered when she grabbed his hand and exited the carriage. Though she put up a good front, she knew he felt her trembling. But it didn't bother her as much as she thought it would because she remembered something important. She wasn't alone in her mourning. A look was all either of them needed before Thomas pushed open the front door.

Caroline held her breath as she felt nostalgia rush through her entire body. But what bombarded her was nothing as dark and foreboding as she imagined. Instead, memories of happier times eased the tension away and brought a tentative smile to her face. After a brief glance at Thomas, she stepped into the house and raked her eyes over every inch and crevasse of the foyer and house that she could see. All the same. Some things moved or replaced, but nearly exactly the same.

Home.

After all the horror and difficulty that laced those horrible four years that she wished she could erase, she was finally home. She could let herself relax. She could let herself be the girl she used to, and without fear.

Caroline smiled broadly behind her hands as she looked around, turning, eventually, to the open double doors that led to the sitting room. In the doorway stood a man, only a few inches taller than she. He stood there with a smile much wider than hers, one that threatened to break into a grin. All she could do was reach out with one of her hands and beckon him forward. And he did, in two long and quick strides. She was lifted off her feet and wildly twirled around like she used to be when she was a little girl.

The sound of her laughter drew both of her parents from the kitchen at the back. But before they could disturb the moment she shared with Richard, he set her down, pressed a kiss to her cheek and whispered in her ear. "Welcome home, Caroline," he said. She pulled away and looked at her second older brother. Tears sprang to her eyes again because she felt the truth that had been spoken. The terrible thoughts that plagued her for all that lost time seemed to have been finally laid to rest.

She was safe. She was home. And she was Caroline Andrews once more.

* * *

Lestrade gaped with wide eyes at the ink stained teeth. But his mouth remained shut. No laughter or words escaped either the inspector or the detective. Silence filled the space between them. After an awkward few minutes, he gave the inspector a look that clearly said 'Your response, or lack thereof, is just as ridiculous, if not more so, as these damned teeth.'

Lestrade impatiently cleared his throat and returned his and their focus to the crime scene at hand. "That's all well and good but I don't see what you're saying has anything to do with these murders. Was a cut and closed murder-suicide, that one. Bloody gruesome and damn disappointing, but a _solved_ one. Blackguard killed himself before we could give him the hangman's noose."

Holmes wiped his nose with a handkerchief and rose from his crouched position near the new body. His eyes raked the form of the drowned woman. Fair-haired, like the previous victim, bearing a wedding band despite her unmarried and uncommitted status, but the difference in this one was the method of murder. Drowning. Why such a difference from the first? Surely it was the same man. Holmes was certain of that fact. But what was the connection between electrocution and drowning?

"Holmes?"

"It's the same man."

"We know it's the same man-what we _don't_ know is why he's acting like bloody Jack the ripper, announcing himself like he does."

Holmes frowned and shot the Inspector a funny look before walking away. "At least we know for certain it wasn't him."

"Of course we know…" Lestrade trailed off, gaping after Holmes before coming to his senses. "You said _wasn't._"

"Yes," Holmes drawled.

Lestrade followed, quick on the detective's tail. "How in hell do we know-"

"Aside from the lack of _evisceration_, this poor woman was, most certainly, not a prostitute. I would have thought that obvious enough even for the Yard to determine."

"Could be an admirer."

"Who just so happens to loathe women as much as he seems to? Might have chosen an easier target if that were the case."

"Fine, she's properly dressed. But that don't explain why this bloody fool's leading us on like some damned public scavenger hunt."

"Public?"

"Tacking the damn photograph to the door of Scotland Yard, dropping these girls in public squares for all to see-what's not so bloody public about it? Not public enough for you? Christ."

While the Inspector walked off, cursing and venting his frustration back along the bridge, Clarkie inched his way up to the detective. "So it's not a ripper murder, sir?"

"No, but it would seem our Inspector would like it to be."

"Can't right blame him though, sir," the policeman whispered. "Devil still has us all spooked."

"All such villains make mistakes at one point or another. It is only a matter of time before he makes a critical error and then you will have your demon."

"It'll be the grace of God that delivers him, sir."

"Capturing that jackal does not require a man of superior detective skills, only a man with superior patience."

"Well, you haven't found him yet, sir."

"And neither has the Yard," Sherlock bit back with a brief glare. "Do not be so quick to dismiss your fellow comrades. That villain will be caught, but not by me. Who knows, perhaps by his next 'victim.' That would certainly be poetic and effective justice, don't you think so?"

"Maybe, sir," Clarie relented, then tension from the conversation slowly ebbing away. "What's this other case you're on about? Something to do with these girls?"

"Perhaps. Nothing for certain yet. I need more data."

"If we can't find him soon there'll be another in a week."

"Yes, I know," Holmes placated. "Do us both a favor and remind Lestrade of that fact. The best any one of you can do is to keep open senses for another kidnapping, if it hasn't happened already."

Holmes climbed into the Hansom waiting to take him home to Baker Street and settled into the seat once the carriage began to move. His mind was abuzz with this new development. The mere possibility that these murders could be connected to the man he'd been seeking recently was something entirely and yet not entirely unexpected. One thing was for certain, this man was headstrong and determined. If this new theory of his was correct, then he was dealing with an all-together different kind of determination than he originally thought.

This looked and reeked of something much more disturbing. But he would not voice it, and not just for his sake, but for the one person this twisted scenario seemed to be centering around. Holmes sighed, coming out of his musings as they approached Baker Street. He sorely missed his poor violin.

* * *

Being smothered and mothered by your mother wasn't as bad a thing as Caroline thought it would have been by now. It was both welcome and sorely missed. In fact, her mother hadn't kept her hands off her since she got hold of her only daughter. Thus, after all proper greetings had been made, she'd been pulled away to the kitchen to help her mother prepare tea. They had just finished setting the tray when Caroline heard the front door open.

"Caroline," someone called. "Caroline? Is she here?"

Said person managed to steal away from her mother's side and search out the familiar voice. Caroline barely concealed her squeal of surprise and delight when she set eyes on her eldest brother. What she couldn't help was launching herself at him after crossing the distance of the hallway in a second. William laughed and wrapped his strong arms around her, kissing the side of her face and breathing in the scent of her free hair. She managed to open her eyes and give some greeting to Rachel, William's wife. At her side Caroline saw a darling two-year-old girl that she'd never seen before.

Once William was convinced to give Caroline opportunity for breath, thankfully by her sister-in-law, Caroline was introduced to her niece, Rebecca Anne Andrews. Although only two, it was incredible how energetic the little tike was. As soon as her little eyes caught sight of her grandmommy, she raced across the floor and barreled into the poor woman, yelling 'Gran-ma, Gran-ma, Gran-ma' all the way there. Moira Andrews silenced her son's rebuke and greeted the two year old properly.

"None of that for your dear old granddaddy, sweet pea" Elias Andrews asked, feigning hurt.

Rebecca detached from Moira and latched onto Elias' leg in response. He, in turn, patted her head and made to pick her up, but everyone in the parlor voiced a loud objection at which he frowned. Rebecca looked around, confused, and retreated to Caroline out of all of them. She raised her little arms and said "Auntie?" To say that Caroline was floored would have been an understatement. When she settled the two year old in her arms it was like a strange and new feeling that she'd never experienced before. And throughout tea they had in the sitting room, Rebecca clung happily to her new auntie and mother. Richard sat on Caroline's other side after much debate between the three brothers as to who would have the honor.

"Do we need to settle this the old-fashioned way, Richard," William asked with a warning tone, and puffing up his chest as the elder brother of the house.

"Why are you asking, Willie," Richard retorted. "Afraid you'll get whipped?"

"There will be NO BRAWLING in this house you two," their mother exclaimed. "Decide like the gentlemen you are and move on with it."

"But there's the problem, mother," Thomas interjected with a smirk. "Richard isn't a gentleman."

Richard responded in kind, by trapping a struggling Thomas into a headlock and wrestling him to the ground. "Sorry, didn't quite catch what you said there!"

"I said…I said," Thomas said, growing more frustrated by the moment.

"Still can't hear you!"

"Oh let him alone, Richard," Rachel said.

"I…said…you're a…bloody prat!"

"Why you," Richard started.

Moira strode across the room, past her hysterical eldest, and the group of daughter, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter, attentions all focused on the fire of the family matriarch. Deftly, Moira Andrews cuffed her second eldest on the back of the head, surprising him into releasing his little brother. Then, she promptly snatched a pinching hold onto both boys' ears. Out of the two, Richard protested the loudest.

"That's enough from both of you," she exclaimed. "Now, unless you want to be treated properly with, like children, you get up, act like the adults you are and stop misbehaving like common ruffians. When I say I want no brawling in my house, _I mean it._ Am I understood?"

Caroline turned to her brother sitting next to her and caught his gaze. She smirked at how chastised he looked. He gave her a withering look right back and continued to rub his poor ear. Noticing a patch of hair in his goatee that had been mussed in the scuffle, she reached over to smooth it out. A second later she found her hand the captive of his, but she didn't try to claim it back when he brought it over his heart. She smiled, forgetting her tea.

The afternoon passed quietly after that. Caroline learned that though she missed the birth of her niece, Rachel was pregnant again. This time she could be there for William when he welcomed another child into the family. She could be there to hold him or her, be there to comfort Rachel, just to be there and be part of a family again. This day gave her hope, something she had been missing for a very very long time. She'd gotten just a taste of it at Baker Street but soon forgot it with her errant tenant's antics. Here she remembered who she used to be and who she could be again.

No more floundering in the dark. No more bending to others wills and opinions. Her parents raised her to have an opinion of her own, to have a voice despite her disability. And she realized that she would do herself and her family best if she started to honor that again. …if she still could. Her other hand traveled up to her throat and began to massage it more out of comfort for her mind than for any physical needs.

"It's good to have you back, sweet pea," Elias said with a sincere gaze full of fatherly love and support.

Rebecca, thinking her granddaddy was speaking to her said, "But I haven't gone anywhere!"

Caroline smiled and signed back, 'I am glad to be.'

There was some argument on who would escort Caroline back to Baker Street, but due to William's obligations to Rachel and Rebecca, and since Thomas had come to fetch her earlier, Richard was granted the duty. Her mother, father, and two other brothers all promised to pop by for tea-which worried her. Their household was maddening enough without adding her family to the mix. The day they might all be under the same roof with Mr. Holmes brought quite a funny picture to mind. Once in the carriage her smug older brother turned to her to have the conversation she suspected he'd been wanting to have all evening.

"Now that you've got real time alone with your _favorite_ brother, tell me about this Holmes fellow. What's he like?"

Instantly, Caroline was on alert. 'Why do you want to know?'

"I hear he's a detective," Richard shrugged, innocent. "Must be a recluse of sorts, keep odd hours does he?"

She thought for a moment. Describe Sherlock Holmes? 'He's…'

"Go on. I'm listening."

'He's quite different. Sometimes he keeps to himself. Other times he can't keep to himself-'

Richard's eyes gained a dark gleam. "What does that mean-"

Caroline frowned. 'Nothing you're thinking! You wanted to listen, so listen.'

"Alright," he relented.

'He does keep odd hours, but with his work I suppose I ought to have expected such things. There are times when he can be difficult, but not all-together unpleasant or unkind. He has a bit of a penchant for mischief. He's always concocting some experiment-I think he might have been a scientist.'

"Married?"

'No.'

"No children, then?"

'Of course not.'

"Any friends pop by?"

'Some Yardsmen. Mostly Dr. Watson.'

"John Watson you mean?"

'Yes, do you know him?'

"Willie does. He's a good sort of man from what I gather, but I haven't seen him in a long time."

'Why not in a long time?'

Richard smiled. "Tell me more about this Sherlock Holmes. Does he respect you? Bother you? Irritate the bloody blazes out of you? You know you could tell me if he does-because if he ever tried anything-_anything_ Caroline-"

'Stop-stop-stop! Whether he does or not is up to me to deal with, Richard. I said he's not an unkind man. He's simply…a strange kind of gentleman…I think.'

"Be that as it may, you need to know-"

'I know where this is coming from and trust me because I would tell you if something were wrong.'

Richard's eyes bored into hers, betraying the true extent of his concern. "Promise?"

Caroline smiled. 'Promise. Don't you trust me?'

"Of course I do. I just don't trust a man I've never met. Have me over to tea sometime this week. I want to meet him."

'I am capable of many things, Richard.'

"Oh I know you are! And that helps ease my worries-but only a little. I'm serious, I want to meet him."

She rolled her eyes and thought briefly of the coming week. Perhaps this could work to her advantage. 'If you must, my overprotective brother.'

"You mean your favorite, overprotective, big, intelligent, dashing-"

Caroline giggled and punched him in the arm. 'I mean my brother! Normal and just mine.'

"I'll always be just yours," he said, leaning in and kissing her cheek.

She blushed, despite herself, and sadly noticed that they were almost at their destination. 'I have missed you all…so very much.'

"We know. We all know. I'm just happy you're here. With a house full of only boys it's damn hard to get yourself heard when you've got no sister pulling for you."

'Well you and Thomas won't have that to worry about anymore.'

Richard smiled. "Thank God for that!"

Convincing him to remain in the carriage and not walk her up to the door, because she didn't trust him to slip in despite her warnings, took a fair amount of effort, but she accomplished it with a kiss on the nose. Richard tried to remain discreet and keep himself hidden for her sake, but he couldn't help one last "I love you" as she started to pull away. It made her smile yet again, and she was thankful for that when she watched the carriage pull away. Keeping his gaze, she subtlety signed 'I love you too' from the nearly closed front door.

Once he was gone, she turned to greet her household, but with a much better disposition. Curiosity pulled her upstairs to Mr. Holmes' flat, and she found him on the tiger rug by the fire, dozing. She raised an eyebrow, not willing to fall for the trick a second time. But she was a calmer woman than she was this morning. So, for whatever reason there seemed to be in that moment, she crossed the room quietly and retrieved a blanket. Whether he was aware of it or not didn't matter to her. She justified to herself that the last thing she needed was a sick tenant on top of everything else.

So she laid the blanket over him almost as if she were doing it to her own child. Then, after sparing herself another glance at the sleeping figure, she descended downstairs to prepare dinner. She could be civil when she wanted to. And perhaps that was the key to everything, she thought. Kindness was a far better weapon than wrath, after all.

* * *

**A/N: I wanted to go deeper into the family dynamics but I couldn't quite get that done this chapter. I will strive to get it done in the future though. Just to keep things straight with the family tree, in case I lost any of you, Caroline had four brothers. She has three now and is still the middle child. For a better understanding here's some vital information on birth order and ages:**

**William: 31, married to Rachel and has a daughter, Rebecca**

**Richard: 28**

**Caroline: 27**

**Christopher: died at 17. So he would be 20.**

**Thomas: 14**

**There isn't much of an age difference between the first three, but between the last two there are some big gaps. Rest assured they'll be explained later. Also, the nature of Christopher's death will be explained later also, I'm thinking in chapter ten or so, but we'll see. Holmes was a wee bit moody this chapter, maybe some reviews will cheer him up ;).**

**Next chapter, in a couple of weeks, seriously this time: Some fun with the Baker Street Irregulars :). **

**-Rainsaber**


	6. Little Hands

**A/N: …humble writer submitting chapter... *meep*.**

**Chapter Six – Little Hands**

_Laughter. _

_High pitched voices. _

_Running feet. _

_A comforting weight settled in her arms. Against her chest. Tucked under her chin. _

_Breathing._

_Sleeping. _

_Content. _

Then, she woke, eyes bursting open with disappointment at the loss of the dream and the return of reality. Caroline slowly sat up and peered through the darkness of early morning. Nothing in the house stirred. Nothing but the aches and pains in her body, begging for more rest. But her eyes were open. The gears in her mind were turning again. And the heaviness in her limbs was lifting.

She rose and went about her morning routines, pausing to make her bed so she wouldn't be tempted to return to it. She washed and dressed in a worn faded brown dress, choosing to don comfort instead of reassurance for the day. In front of the mirror, while she was pinning her hair back, she got a good look at the one thing she only let herself dream about at night.

A mother.

Holding. Kissing. Shielding. Teaching. Loving.

Mother?

Did she want to be a mother?

It was all she ever dreamed of when she was little. Once, she stole her mother's shoes and tried to walk in them. Another time, she sat on the counter in a pile of flour and raw eggs after a botched attempt at making cookies. Many times she was able to wrangle all her brothers into behaving like normal children when her mother needed it the most. She had dreams when she was a girl of being a mother, of getting married and having her own family by now.

And here she was in a boarding house working as a caretaker. Alone.

Holding her niece yesterday was a gift. And it was wrong to feel jealous of her sister-in-law for it. But she was jealous if she was honest with herself. She wanted another day like yesterday. She wanted everyday to be like yesterday. With circumstances as they are and have been for her, it just couldn't be an option. Not right now. But maybe someday if she let herself believe in the possibility. It wasn't as if she needed to hide anymore.

She smiled in the mirror. It was a tired one, not all put together, but it looked better than when she tried to smile a month ago. She made it halfway down the stairs of the quiet house before her eyes started to water. She stopped and took a deep breath to push them back and continue. It was turning out to be quite the week, and if these ups and downs kept up she'd be wearing these damned puffy eyes around the bloody clock!

This morning she didn't care about her feud with Mr. Holmes. In fact, she was getting rather sick of it and of the idea that she'd have to start being nice to him to make a point. She wanted…not that it mattered, but she wanted her old life back-when things were simple, when she was helping her mother in the kitchen, when the important things were helping Rachel pick out flowers for her wedding bouquet, when she had a security blanket of people around her who knew who she was and respected her enough to not make her prove herself or compete with others out in the street for recognition as a normal person.

Normal.

Caroline chuckled to herself. As if anything in this house with _that_ man could be normal. Who was she kidding? If she stood any chance at gaining her normality back then she needed to get out of this house soon. Had Mrs. Hudson said when she'd be back?

…odd.

Caroline would simply have to write the woman and ask.

…damn.

Once she sweetened her way into getting her pens back.

…bloody stupid-!

And it was only six in the morning.

* * *

"How's the case?"

"What case?"

"I know you have one," Watson said, as he was paying the baker for his parcel of sweets. "Don't bother denying it."

This conversation was not interesting, not stimulating. Holmes let his attention wander, eyes scanning the room and landing on a boy in the corner, sneaking a roll of bread while leaning forward and feigning interest in something else. The detective smirked and watched the oblivious policeman chatter away with the boy's pretty sister a few feet away.

"What could possibly make you think I'm working on anything other than the demise of our dear interim landlady," he asked, following the doctor out the front door and into the bustle of the streets.

"Well, let's see. You're a detective-"

"Consulting-"

"And not a psychopath. Murder isn't in your repertoire. And-"

Holmes frowned at the drizzling rain. "Unfortunate as that may be-"

"I'm not finished-"

"Fancy a cab ride home-"

"Would you let me finish?"

Holmes stopped and pursed his lips, sending a withering look Watson's way. "If you must."

"You've got that look in your eye."

"Exceptional vocabulary."

"You know what I mean," Watson hissed.

"I do?"

"It's that look that says you're up to something. Like you've just got two steps ahead of the game on something-rather someone. And if it were Lydia you wouldn't be out here boasting about it to me."

"Pray tell, what would I be doing?"

"Enjoying the spoils of war," he said before hailing them both a cab. Once inside and moving, Holmes removed his dark glasses, wiped them dry on his pant leg, and stowed them in his pocket.

"Who says I'm not?"

"What?"

"Enjoying the spoils of war, as you so adequately put it."

Watson raised an eyebrow. "What did you do?"

"Nothing."

"No, you did something," Watson mused, his voice laced with caution and unspoken words in the order of _I don't think I want to know_. To Holmes' credit, he didn't press the conversation further.

"How's Mrs. Watson?"

"Fine."

"And you?"

"Fine. We're both fine, Holmes."

Holmes nodded with an agreeing sound in his throat. The carriage bumped to the right due to a hole in the road but both men sat in the, otherwise, quiet of their ride home, one failing to hide a smirk that was threatening to break into a wide giddy grin and the other watching the show with barely concealed amusement.

"Congratulations, Watson."

Laughter burst free from the doctor. Composure flew out the window and sent both men on the highs of a happy hysteria that can only be described as the imaginative wonders of an expecting parent. Watson's face was in his hands, hiding the happy tears and genuine smile. Holmes allowed the man a moment to himself before leaning forward and pulling the hands free.

"Come now, Watson," the detective said. "One would think you'd been harboring bad news all this time."

Watson chuckled low in his throat as he wiped at his face with a handkerchief. "I'm surprised it took you this long-"

"Rather hard to deduce seeing as how Peale's bakery seems to be booming under your ritual visits."

"Oh, Sherlock…" John trailed off, staring out the carriage window, seeing things in his minds eye rather than the monotonous row houses along the street.

A wealth of emotions passed through the doctor's face. Joy. Longing. Fear- "You'll make a fine father, John."

"One can only hope," he whispered, seemingly cheered by that rare show of support.

"When is she due?"

"October. I wish you were there when she told me. She was so…you could see it-how she looked-before she told me. I don't think it's fully set into me yet, but I've heard a saying somewhere-"

"A woman becomes a mother when she conceives and a man becomes a father when he holds his child."

"Yes," Watson said rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. "Yes a thousand times over."

Holmes leant back against the carriage seat and gazed out the window to check on their progress, pleased that the rain let up a bit. "Well, you've gone and done it now, old boy. Instead of lace doilies everywhere you'll have nappies and toys tripping you up."

Watson smiled, but cleared his throat soon after. "Listen, Sherlock. Mary and I have been talking and…we both decided-thought that it would be a good idea if…if it's agreeable to you…We'd like you to be the godfather."

John's answer came in a form that shouldn't have surprised him, in one that should have been expected from a man like Sherlock Holmes. There was no flick of the sharp eyes to gauge seriousness. No comment made about the level of Mary's consent in the matter (which, of course, was wholehearted anyway). Nothing said about responsibilities or parameters regarding visits or meetings. No question as to who the godmother was, or was going to be. In place of all that was a soft smile and a silent acceptance that was said only with a slight and humble nod of the head.

* * *

Caroline blinked like a wide-eyed doe. At the door was a dozen dirty little children of various ages and statures, boys she could only assume came from the streets due to their attire. The eldest stood in front of her and had a confident air about him. He tipped his worn hat and bade her good morning. When she was in the middle of signing the same back, after getting over her initial surprise, Holmes called out from the landing above.

"Up here chaps," he called.

And, as if a firecracker had gone off, signaling their start to the race, Caroline was bumped backwards against the door as they all ran up to Mr. Holmes' flat.

"Sorry 'bout that mum," the leader said, before dashing upstairs after his entourage.

She chuckled to herself staring up after them in disbelief and curiosity. Her eyes met the detective's briefly before she turned around to shut the door. When she looked back upstairs he was gone and the door to his flat was shut. What in the world would Sherlock Holmes have to do with a group, and a large one at that, of orphan boys?

She didn't have any hint of a possible answer, but she decided to find one herself. So she sat in the foyer where all the occupants of the house left her and made quick work of unlacing and untying her shoes. Once that was done she stowed them under a side table by the stairs and began to climb with careful toes, avoiding the weak steps that creaked in the cold temperature of the house.

When she reached the top she gathered her skirts up and knelt by the keyhole. Laying thin hands against the cool wood of the door, she peered through the small opening first. Dissatisfied with the results she changed tactics and pressed an ear to it instead.

"Who's the new pre'y lady?-"

"She's nicer'n 'e olda misses-"

"Is she your wife?-"

Caroline couldn't help but blush in the hallway. _Only if I were bleeding mad._

"She's very pre'y."

"An' quiet-"

"An' she smiles right nice!-"

"Alright," Mr. Holmes exclaimed. "Enough of that, boys. Now, listen up!"

As Caroline listened she was surprised to hear a gentle tone about Mr. Holmes. One would almost think that it was a father speaking to his children if they didn't know the occupants of the room beyond. For all the childish and immature ways that man could act around those of his own age it was downright strange and a little funny to hear him sound so grown up around actual children.

"I want one boy to keep an eye on the jeweler's shop like before but this time look for a man with a limp or a cane. I want to know what he looks like and what time he stops by. Understood?"

"Undastood," the boys all chorused.

"I also want two boys to keep two eyes this time on the Carroll Street house from the corner."

Caroline's brow furrowed in confusion. _Why does that sound familiar? I know that street don't I?_

"Same one, guvnor?"

"The very same."

"Bu' that's farver away-"

"For good reason, lad. Now, don't interrupt. I want to be told immediately if anyone comes to visit in addition to who comes and goes for normal business. Rest assured you'll be compensated in accordance to the new responsibilities. Here's for the last week and the advance you were promised."

"Same meetin' time then?"

"Yes, that will do fine, Wiggins. Get them a decent meal with this."

"Thank you, sir-"

"None of that-Off with the lot of you! Criminals don't catch themselves."

She just had enough time to jump away from the door before it swung open and the boys charged down the stairs and out the door again. With the door's edge between her fingers and the rest of her body hidden she peeked around and watched as the leader caught the front door before it slammed shut, winked up at her, and closed it properly.

Someone cleared his throat next to her, leaning against the doorway. She looked at Mr. Holmes, unabashed and stepped out from behind the door, setting it aside so it wouldn't hit the wall. The man raised an eyebrow at her and flicked his eyes downward. Caroline peeked down and realized he was staring at her lack of shoes. But instead of blush and make a run for them, she leaned against the wall, stuck her feet out, and crossed them, stockings and all.

Mr. Holmes looked amused when she looked back up at him, but it was a strange kind of amusement-almost as if he were saying _I know you were eavesdropping and you're trying to cover up now for it, but it won't work so don't even try_, without saying it. Funny how charming he could look when he wanted something…

"They'll be by three times a week," he said. "Same time on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I hope that won't bother you too much?"

Caroline smiled, throwing said look right back at him. 'Not at all, sir.'

"Magnificent."

It was only after they bid each other good afternoon and departed (him to his flat) that she noticed the dirt left behind on the stairs and in the foyer.

_Double damn!_

* * *

Sherlock sat in his chair musing. In place of the Stradivarius was a pen, being twirled to within an inch of its life. He'd sat there since earlier on in the afternoon. Thinking. Twirling. Thinking some more. Tossing into the air…hit one too many times on the head.

_Damn woman_.

This was most definitively not conducive to his normal working methods. No. No. Not at all. He sighed, loudly to no one in particular…maybe to his firm resolve and the part of himself that needed things to be right and work out the way he planned them. He would see that instrument returned to his arms. And soon.

* * *

She had just finished cleaning up dinner, and the rest of the dirt dragged in from earlier when there was a small knock at the front door. Caroline didn't think much of it at first until she noticed that it had gotten dark outside. It was late. Who could possibly be calling this late? Fear is a difficult thing to swallow when you're in a house nearly by yourself.

Caroline chanced a look upstairs to see if her tenant had heard the knock also but it would seem he hadn't with the door still shut…and the house still eerily quiet. She reached into her pocket and wrapped her fingers tight around a ring of sharpened keys. With her free hand she pushed the lock back and opened the door with a cautious look around the other side. And what she found made her hand in her pocket loose with relief.

It was the leader of the group of boys from earlier on in the day with his hat being wrung between his hands.

"Hello, mum. I just wan'ed to say sorry 'bout this mornin' an' I was wondring…could I ask you somethin'?"

He looked up, expecting her to send him on his way, but Caroline nodded for him to continue.

"The li'le one of us. 'e don't speak much, not at awl really. An' the only way 'e does is when we can teach 'im things. None of us know much though. I was thinking that…if you'd consider it at awl, teaching 'im the signs I mean-the boys and I work for Mr. Holmes but if you eva needed one of us to run errands or the like in return-"

She smiled. How couldn't she? More importantly, how could she refuse? "Y-yes," she managed to say with a hand on her throat.

"Oh, pardon me mum, I didn't know you-"

Caroline held a hand up and Wiggins silenced. Then she signed along with her spoken, if not mangled words, to her own ears. She could only hope the spasms that threatened to close up her throat would keep at bay for just a little while. "On-ly…a LIT-tle…when-I C-can…you see."

Wiggins nodded and spoke with a new light in his eyes, one that Caroline could see even in the dark. "He's a nice one, mum. Taught 'im manners and awl meself."

"Th-three times-a…week-for le-less-sons…no l-less. Is that…poss-ssible?"

"If it's not too much for you mum-"

"No. No, not-at-all. And…on-ce a wee-k for errands."

"That's awl?"

Caroline nodded.

"Could," the boy started. He shifted his weight between two feet and bit his lip. "…I don' want to be askin' too much of you, mum-cause me and the boys 'ppreciate what you're willin' to do for us, but…would you consider teaching two of us? The li'le one and maybe one of the older boys too? Wouldn't do to have 'im know and not 'ave anyone to talk to."

"Of course," she whispered. "Monday, W-Wednes-day, and…F-Friday at ta-two-fr…for an…hour?"

"That'll be right when we're done wiv Mr. Holmes. That'll work for us if it do with you?"

"Backdoor."

"Right! You won't regret this mum, I promise!"

Before she knew it she had an arm-full of said little boy. Hugging her. Hugging back was an automatic response, even the hand on the head and another on the center of the back. Such warmth and love in such a small little body, from somewhere no one would think to look twice in this part of their world. It was sad, and it made her want to keep him, take him in, help in more ways than she had just agreed to…But, sadly, the moment was over before she knew it. And the boy was gone into the night, not to be seen until the day after tomorrow.

In the meantime, at 221b Baker Street, the obnoxious goings on between landlady and tenant continued. Things would be displaced or 'accidentally' knocked over, and then righted without a single word, sign, or huff of annoyance. Challenging glares were returned with sweet smiles, lack of communication was met with patience, and clear attempts at small talk went one sided aloud. It hadn't started getting to her until she walked into the kitchen one afternoon and found practically everything rearranged and put away in a different place. Finding the silverware behind the stove was not an experience she wished to repeat.

…nor was retrieving the kettle from underneath a small opening in the floorboards.

Despite all of this, manners and some sense of decorum was kept between the two. As unrelenting as Sherlock Holmes was, not once were any of his tricks or childish pranks designed to hurt, merely to annoy, confound, and inspire. Caroline figured he was trying his best to get her to talk to prove his point that she could. She didn't care to know how he had found out her secret, nor was she keen on giving him the result he wanted. More important to her, however, was the respect she knew she deserved. Once she had that, she might consider saying a few choice words, but all in her own time and if she felt like talking at all. She had nothing to prove to Sherlock Holmes. Everything to prove to her two students, perhaps, but not that child in men's clothing upstairs.

* * *

He had to admit that the girl was trying her best, but the large scratch on the side of the kettle and a small matching dent on the floor proved that he was making some progress, however painstakingly slow it was coming along. He was sure the dirt from the boys would have set her off, but when he listened behind the closed door of his flat, all he heard was a sigh and her descent down to the mess. He was starting to seriously wonder if it were possible to speed up the process at all. Perhaps she was simply dragging the week out to spite him. Surely the daft woman wanted her pens back…

What if she didn't?

…surely she did. What could she possibly gain over his keeping the writing instruments from her?

Nothing. No. Absolutely nothing.

And, damn it, he wanted his Stradivarius back. Needed rather. The fact that it wouldn't be long until the next murder victim turned up had him sneaking down the stairs toward strange sounds in the kitchen. His original intent had been to make another round of the house for the instrument since there were a few places he hadn't thought she'd known about. But that plan came to a halt the moment he peeked through the crack between the ajar door and the wall it was hinged to.

"Charlie, no," a boy said. "Like this. There, you go' it, now."

Those were two of his boys…-

"Again," a female whispered.

He almost hadn't heard it, not if he hadn't seen the boys heads whip back to the other person in the room he hadn't seen at first. Seated opposite the two irregulars was Ms. Collins, hands out, signing along with a…surprisingly, moving and speaking mouth.

"My…n-name…is Char-lie. Good. …Rob-bie…Wiggins…G-Goo-d."

Her voice. So that was what it sounded like. Not like what he imagined for someone with her condition, but…not altogether as horrible sounding as he was led to believe either. It was soft and breathy, much like what the wind might sound like on a calm day in the countryside.

"Now, Holmes…alm-most…again…yes, per-fect."

Under a clear blue sky perhaps-

Charlie abruptly sneezed into his hands, rubbed them dry on his pant legs, and resumed his work. Sherlock watched as Ms. Collins frowned and took a moment to rub at her throat. She eyes the boy's hands and looked as if she were about to bring Charlie over to the sink to properly wash them. But a knock at the front door startled them, Holmes least of all, though nearly enough to bump his head against the door when he flinched at the noise. That mailman was coming earlier every day now.

"Back-k d-door, boys," she whispered.

"Thank you missus," the older boy said.

Two shuffling little feet towards the backdoor and one pair of clicking heels heading his way. He hid behind the door as it opened farther to admit the rushed woman. Sherlock watched as she answered the door and took advantage of the moment to slip around to the kitchen and disappear without making a sound. Before exiting the house through the back, he snatched a cookie off the plate, popped it into his mouth, and decided to do a little more snooping around for this 'Ripper' copycat that was turning the Yard upside down.

What neither Holmes nor Caroline saw when the mailman came to call was Charlie snitch a few cookies from the plate. And definitely not the older boy make him put two back and keep only one for himself…


	7. A Fall

**Chapter Seven – A Fall**

Perhaps it was the idea or the implications of not being human that made Sherlock Holmes forget himself. Watson had certainly accused him of such on many an occasion. Or maybe it was his stubborn nature that kept him healthy for years despite numerous cases, experiments, and weather conditions that worked against him. Either way, when Sherlock Holmes fell victim to illness, it was an illness to be remembered for three reasons:

There were few instances in his life to remember ever being sick.

Common colds that did not render him bedridden did not count.

He was overtly careful and cautious when it came to cleanliness…most of the time.

To put it simply, Holmes was a man who had a system, disorganized and disturbingly repulsive to any normal Englishman, granted, but a man with a system who was also a scientist in many aspects of human life. To a scientist disorder was order. Things in his world were attentively measured, meticulously maintained when called for, and promptly forgotten when uses outweighed worth and significance. When experiments failed, more often than not they were tossed aside in disappointment, not for lack of attention or care.

Were one to look into the mind of Sherlock Holmes, one might find two doors, one leading to information that was useful, and the other to a waste yard of discarded theories, abandoned chains of thought, and the occasional assumption that landed him into a fit of frustration or one of his more volatile tempers in need for some kind of data. Without data, without the daily exercise of information running around in his cranium, Holmes could practically feel the complacency settling in. If he were ever to openly admit a fear, and only to Watson of course, it would be the normalcy of every day living. Needless to say, sickness fell into the large category that described the bulk of the agonizingly boring and normal aspects of the human condition, no matter the severity.

Sherlock descended into another coughing fit that seized his entire body and forced it into curling in on itself solely for the sake of lessening the pain. Though subconscious the movement was, it was a motion in vain. There wasn't a place on or in him that he could say did not ache or throb with weakness. When he sneezed, no matter the state of the roaring fireplace at his bedside, his bodily state was worse yet. His thoughts were sluggish in the midst of a nasty headache.

Being the man he was, he would have been dragging his feet along the riverside for more evidence if it weren't for the fact that he didn't have the strength to move from his blasted bed. All the handkerchiefs he owned were dirty, filled with bodily fluids he'd rather have expelled all at once and not a little bit at a time when his cold felt like it. He didn't like breathing through his nose when sickness was assaulting his senses. It had a distinct and distracting smell that overpowered every comfort imaginable.

All of this in the middle of a case no less! It had to be _her_ fault. Their little war seemed tempered to him not yesterday, but perhaps that had been the needed lull that seduced him into a false sense of security. Women were cunning when it came to things like that. And making him ill was not something he would put past his dear interim landlady in her efforts to reclaim her writing utensils.

Yesterday was proof that he was making progress with her. Yes, that was certain, however…

A shiver shot up and down his spine, compelling him to burrow deeper into the cool sheets that couldn't seem to retain any warmth from his body whatsoever. Perhaps he could hold up in this room until this cold passed and keep the woman at bay as well. But that would mean locking his door. And that would require getting out of bed. Not for the first time that morning did he wish Watson was by his bedside instead of a snoring Gladstone.

* * *

"It's a bit dark for the likes of your mother," Elias Andrews said, after their tour of the Baker Street boarding house. "And a touch too elegant for something like a proper home. But it suits the purpose I suppose."

"A pain in the bum to clean, right," Richard asked with knowing smirk.

Elias frowned at his son's language but did not reprimand him.

Caroline nodded with a smile.

The three Andrews' sat in the front parlour on the first floor with tea and cranberry scones between them. Richard did warn her of coming to tea sometime soon, but she hadn't expected him to bring her father along. And what surprised her even more was that he wanted to see the residence, all three floors of them. Richard had sent her an apologetic glance before they started, but it did little to quell her worry.

Ever since his fall from the front steps of their house their father did little in looking after himself, preferring to ignore doctor's orders and pretend that it hadn't happened at all. She looked over to him when he wasn't paying attention and noted the creases around his eyes and on his forehead. Richard noticed too, but said nothing and returned to his cup

"So where's this Holmes bloke-"

"Richard," Elias warned.

Caroline said nothing and quirked an eyebrow at him, as if saying 'You're asking for it.'

"Sorry," Richard muttered.

"Where is the rascal, sweet pea, upstairs? I was looking forward to meeting him."

'Indisposed,' she signed. 'I believe he's sick. I've heard coughing all morning but when I try to see to him he won't let me.'

"Noble," her father commented over his cup. "Probably doesn't want to get you sick, dear."

'Perhaps, father. But what can I do?'

Richard smirked. "Well nothing if he's going to be a stubborn prat-"

A form whack from the cane shut Richard up, but not without a short and contained cry of pain.

"How many times do I have to tell you to keep that kind of language at the warehouse where it belongs?"

"It won't happen again-"

"You see that it doesn't." Elias turned to his only daughter, who had her head turned away in innocence, and continued the conversation. "You might give that doctor friend of his a ring. Wouldn't do to have you both sick at the same time."

'It could just be a cold, father.'

"Or it could be something worse. I know the thought passed through your mind-and it's a precaution you need to take. Not just for yourself either. God knows what that man gets into with his experiments."

Caroline looked at her father, confused. 'You know him?'

Elias Andrews looked up and his face was blank for only a moment before he spoke. "Of course, dear. We were colleagues. Worked on a few projects when he was still in his university days. Came up with a damn good solution for cheap mortar too. Don't you remember?"

Caroline shook her head, thinking back to her childhood but finding nothing.

"Hmm, well he didn't come around too often. You might have been out with your mother."

Caroline would have blamed it on her memory if she hadn't seen the look on Richard's face, a look that mirrored her own not a few seconds ago. When they left, and Caroline was washing up in the kitchen, the conversation was still stuck in her mind. If her father and Mister Holmes had worked together before, he as her father's assistant even…why didn't she remember? Surely she would have…

Coughing again, upstairs.

She stopped midway through cleaning the serving tray and sighed. He was sounding worse with each passing fit. Perhaps she ought to take her father's advice and call on Doctor Watson. But then again, she hated to bother the busy man if it was nothing more than seasonal congestion.

Sneezes.

A moan.

Maybe her lock pick was in order, since he locked the door on her the last time she knocked…Yes, that was what she would do. She would check on him by force and if the situation warranted it, she would fetch the doctor. So she left the tray in the sink, dried off her hands and went in search of what she needed before venturing into his flat. She didn't even bother to announce her presence this time, choosing instead to pick the lock without ceremony. Quick work was made of it and Caroline entered the room without trouble. No traps or tricks, just a poor man nursing something awful in his bed. She went right over and immediately noticed that he was shivering…under nothing more than the bed sheets.

Stupid fool, she thought to herself as she went in search for some blankets.

Opening the closet had been a shock; it was one of the more organized nooks in the entire flat. But no blankets to be found. Well, perhaps a coat would do for while she searched. It was well worn and soft to the touch, but most definitively warm, which was what the poor man was desperately in need of right now. When she settled it on him, he didn't wake, but she was happy to see the shivers die down a little.

Nothing out in the open.

Nothing under the bed.

Nothing in the dresser.

All that was left was the chest at the foot of the bed which, of course, was locked. Caroline spared herself a moment to glare at the incapacitated man in bed before setting to picking that one as well. She hadn't spent three seconds on her task before she heard something halfway between a droning whisper and a groan.

"There are spare blankets in Watson's old office."

Caroline's head shot up to find the detective with his eyes still closed. Deciding to take the pick with her for good measure she made a run for the room that was separated from the sitting room by a retracting set of double doors. She pushed one aside, entered the cool room and noticed a pile of them in the closet. She returned with as many as she could carry and dropped them in front of the fire so they would be warm by the time she needed them.

She refilled the glass of water at his bedside, gathered all the handkerchiefs and tossed them in the basket of laundry to be done, and returned with a few clean ones of her own in the meantime. The detective had turned on his side, away from her and the fire, clutching at what little warmth the coat had to offer. He had a thought to snap out a retort when she took the coat away, but as soon as she covered him in the warm blankets his body could no longer complain and the words died on his dry lips.

Once she laid the fifth and final one on him, she sat down on the edge of the bed and laid a hand on his forehead. He regarded her with thinly veiled curiosity and a little bitterness, but she ignored him. The heat under her hand was worrying, more so the fact that he wasn't even sweating under it.

"You're thinking of getting Watson," he said in a hoarse whisper.

'What would you have me do? You are sick.'

Holmes jerked his head away from her hand. "I'll not have him in this house while I'm incubating this damned virus."

Caroline was not pleased at his attitude, nor at the words that were clearly fueled by the fever. 'If your aim is to play the martyr-'

"It's not. It's necessity-"

'You need a doctor.'

"And the doctor, whose wife is newly pregnant, does not need what I have."

Caroline's eyes widened and she sat back as she thought on that logic, finding it frighteningly sound. It was indeed a risk to call for Doctor Watson if that was the case. And Mister Holmes didn't seem the type to lie about something as serious as that, not when it came to a close friend of his. Caroline had a sneaking suspicion that Watson was the only doctor that Holmes consulted or allowed to treat him for things in the past. Either way, that placed the both of them in a predicament. She was no doctor herself. And to pretend to be one could prove something regrettably harmful.

Caroline thought on this a long time before responding. 'If you get worse, I'll not promise a thing.'

Holmes sniffed and wiped at his nose with one of her handkerchiefs. "If that becomes the case then any doctor other than Watson will do."

Caroline pursed her lips. 'Will you even let them in the door?'

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I would. Their choice of treatment, however, may prove difficult."

Caroline rolled her eyes and sighed. Then she jumped off the bed and ducked when a powerful sneeze forced Holmes up from his prone position. He moaned from the force of it and fell right back from whence he rose. Before she left to tend to the laundry she readjusted the blankets around him, took the key for the door, pocketed it, and closed it behind her.

* * *

Caroline had intended to abide by the detective's wishes…she really had, but when the doctor showed up at the door after she finished with the laundry, wanting to know if Mister Holmes was in, she couldn't help but let it out of the bag. Once Watson heard of Holmes' illness, without any explanation as to why he wasn't called, he went straight upstairs. Caroline followed closely behind, but stayed at the doorway.

"I told you not to let him in," Holmes groaned.

Caroline at least had the decency to look as ashamed as she felt on the inside.

But Watson was not deterred. He strode over to his companion's bedside and saw to his condition immediately. "Your gratitude is immeasurable, old boy. Now, what have you done to yourself this time?"

"Take care Watson," Holmes hissed, grabbing hold of Watson's jacket lapel and dragging him down so he could be heard. "She's managed to incapacitate me, but I won't have her ensnare you in this web of revenge either."

"What," Watson asked, completely confused, although his friend's physical condition was becoming more clear with each passing second.

Surprisingly, Holmes turned his gaze to Caroline, who placed a hand against the cool doorframe to steady herself against a slight dizzy spell. Probably from those stupid stairs-"Won't admit it, will you? Not in the company of another person, a witness to your crimes against me."

Caroline turned worried eyes to the doctor. Mister Holmes didn't talk like this to her, and not with such a murderous look in his eyes. She tried very hard not to flinch or shake under that gaze, but the memories that were surfacing before her eyes made it hard not to. So she lowered her gaze and tried to gain control over herself. Her head was beginning to pound and her strength was starting to wane.

Nerves. Surely nerves.

"First the tea, the scones, then the ink-if you truly wanted to poison me then you'd best take note and get it right the next time-if there is even an opportunity for it."

Caroline looked up at him, at a loss for words, and a little hurt that he would think she would turn their playful game into something malicious. Was that what he truly thought? If so then why had he facilitated it? Why make her go through all the trouble…Did he think she was that kind of a person-Why had he defended her from the Inspector-What was it all for-some bigger game? Her face was heating up. It made her dizzy to even think that-

"In case you were wondering you've done a piss-poor job of it-"

"Holmes-" Watson exclaimed.

Her knees felt weak. She felt like he had just slapped her across the face with that kind of declaration. Perhaps she deserved it. It wasn't as if-

"Are you completely incompetent or have you lost your senses in your quest to make me suffer? There are certifiable imbeciles running the streets that could have done it ten-times better than you, shouting their plans all the way to the finish-"

"Holmes, that is enough," Watson shouted. Once his point had been made he lowered his voice, but not his tone. "You are sick with a fever and need to rest. Do you understand me? Calm yourself _this instant_!"

Though Watson's displeasure had been noticeably clear, Caroline still left the room. She would have gone downstairs and outside for some air had she not felt so weak all of a sudden. She leaned against the banister and looked down at the house below her. In her mind's eye she looked back at the girl that stepped through that door for her first day. So naïve, innocent with rightly placed fears and insecurities about herself and she world that she was asking to be let back into. Why did she ever want that?

"Lydia?"

She turned, eyes glossy and throat scratchy. 'His eyes…they were so hateful.'

"I'm sorry you had to see that, but it was the fever. Holmes is not in his right mind at the moment. I guarantee you that he would have lashed out at me had you not been there."

Caroline didn't notice it at first, but as soon as Watson had finished speaking, she knew what had initially surprised her. 'You understood me?'

Watson sheepishly smirked. "I've been doing some studying. I don't know too much, but from what I gather, much of any language, spoken or not, is intuitive until you know it fluently."

'How is he now?'

"You were doing all the right things," he said, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I'd much rather break his fever with heat than with the cold, but we'll just have to be careful that his temperature doesn't rise to high. I'd advise checking it by the hour. If it rises any farther than where it is now I want you to fetch me. He'll need plenty of fluids, tea and broth, as well as anything light that he can stomach. "

'Anything else?'

Watson looked at her with narrowed eyes, as if he had just seen something important. "Plenty of rest, for the both of you. You're looking a bit peckish yourself-"

'I'm fine, please-'

He pressed a hand to her forehead and even when she tried to wave him off he persisted. She thought nothing of it until she stopped to look at the worry dawning on his face. "Lydia, you're burning up."

'I am not.'

"Yes you are. You've got a cold sweat on you-How are you on your feet?"

Caroline shook her head, and instantly regretted it. She felt her hand shoot out to grasp the banister for support. Her ears were ringing, louder than usual. And her vision was getting fuzzy, going in and out of focus. Sitting down seemed a good idea. Why hadn't anyone thought to put a chair out here on the landing? That hand was back on her shoulder, hooking around her arm as if it knew she felt dizzy too.

"…-help you up to bed," he was saying. "You're in no condition to-…"

Rain was beating against the window. It was raining. And the laundry was hanging outside. She watched as her feet started moving, one in front of the other. But the strange thing was that her body felt numb, as if she were trapped inside a cage and being forced to look out. Talking. Jumbled words-were they words?

Someone called her name.

Not her name.

She tried turning around but her feet were dragging on the spinning carpet.

"Watch the _staircase_!"

And then there was no floor.

* * *

**Part one! It's a shortie I know, but putting this and the next chapter together would have been too much methinks. So, cliffhanger! Part two soon to follow. Review?  
**

**-Rainsaber**


	8. Into This Abyss

**A/N: Big thanks to **sashaxh**, **charlie167, **and **MarliGibbs** for reviewing the last chapter! This is one big freaking chapter where a lot happens and we finally get some answers…okay maybe one or two for now. Thank you to everyone who continues to read and review. I hope this chapter is just as enjoyable as the last! Happy Thanksgiving to everyone :)**

**Chapter Eight – Into This Abyss**

John sighed out loud and leaned forward against the warm fireplace with both hands. Taking the weight off his bad leg felt good. He'd certainly be feeling something worse than the current throbbing for the next few days. But it was a necessary evil. He was only thankful he'd given thought to visiting Holmes after he finished at the practice. If he had to run home for his medical bag…well, he'd be feeling pain for more than just a few days. They had all been lucky.

Lucky that Watson felt guilty for not keeping his teatime with Holmes.

Lucky that he had come just as the detective's fever was starting to spike.

Lucky that he caught Lydia in her fainting spell before she broke her neck on the staircase.

They were close shaves on all accounts. And now that he'd managed to get Holmes to take an aspirin and calm down, he only had one real worry on his hands. Sherlock's fever would break soon, but Lydia's was only just beginning. What he didn't like was how fast her temperature was rising in comparison to Holmes'. And, as he now sat downstairs in the second floor sitting room amongst all the various clutter and half-finished experiments of Sherlock's, he considered trying to wake the poor girl so he could get some medicine into her sooner. How he had hoped it was nothing more than a simple fainting spell… Exhaustion, he would have taken that too. But it was far too likely that she had caught the same thing in such close quarters.

What made it easier was that Holmes seemed to be a fair bit farther along, so what ailed him John would be ready to deal with a second time if need be. And, after all, it was only a cold. If all went according to how he expected things to progress, this would all be over with as little fuss as possible in the next couple of days. What he didn't relish was the time he would surely need on the settee, getting _his_ much needed rest.

Or what little he could find.

* * *

She was hot. Uncomfortably so with all the layers on her. It was stifling. She tried to move, to shift, or remove the coverlet on her, but it was no use. She simply didn't have the strength to lift her arm. But she did manage to toss her head upon the pillow and knock some of the hair out of her face. She made a quiet moan in her efforts, wondering if someone or anyone could hear her…but then she remembered that she was on the third floor.

And what was the use of all the effort if no one would come to her aid? What was the use since she felt so tired? So she closed her eyes and resolved to rest in the horrible heat, or at least rest until she had the proper strength to get out of this bloody bed. Some time later there was a hand on her shoulder, shaking it, trying to wake her-She had fallen asleep?

"Lydia?"

She turned her head away from the incessant shaking-perhaps the person would leave her to her sweaty throbbing misery.

"Lydia."

But she knew that voice. Against her better judgment she cracked her eyes open, shutting them against the light from the fireplace that seemed as bright as a sunny summer day in the countryside. Why did she have such a headache? Was that why she was in bed? She certainly wasn't sick-she never got sick-the mere thought was absolutely ridiculous. This must be what Thomas complained about when they had to fetch a doctor for his fever when he was a boy. It certainly didn't feel pleasant.

"Sorry to wake you, dear," the doctor said. "But I need you to take this. It will temper that fever of yours a bit."

She opened her eyes again and squinted up at Doctor Watson who was offering her a glass of water and a little pill. Medicine? If it would make her pounding headache go away she would gladly take it. She tried to push herself up but was having some trouble.

"Here-"

She waved him off, wanting to do it herself. And eventually she did manage to sit up against the pillows, more sweaty than before and exhausted to the point of barely lifting a hand to drink the glass of water. Once she swallowed the pill he set about checking her temperature, and to her embarrassment, helping her change into more appropriate clothing for bed rest. Though he told her numerous times that he was a doctor and that she had nothing to worry about it still felt rather strange.

She hadn't known him long but long enough to consider an acquaintance at least, and dare she think a possible friend. After all, he could partially understand her, he saved her from that nasty fall, and he was selflessly taking time away from his life to see to not only her comfort but Mr. Holmes' as well. There had to be a way to repay him, to send him home with promises to call if things got worse-_that_ at the very least.

"Absolutely not," he said with a stern look. "You and Holmes are both sick with the same virus. It won't do either of you any good to be mixing germs-no matter how much the idea appeals to him. I am staying here until I'm certain one or both of you is on the mend."

'Mrs. Watson,' she enquired sluggishly. 'Mr. Holmes told me…'

John reached over and held her hands together, speaking softly. "That's nothing for you to worry about. All you need to do is focus on your rest. Alright?"

Caroline closed her eyes and nodded. Suddenly, she jerked a hand out of his grasp, finding it very uncomfortable.

Itchy.

She tried to scratch without much notice, but the moment she did it grew worse. Then the same happened with her other arm. It was completely inappropriate but the urge was just too powerful to ignore. Wordlessly, John took her arm in his hand and lifted the sleeve up, thinking that perhaps some bed bugs had gotten in, but what the two of them found was far more troubling.

"What is that," John muttered with a confused look.

He rose from his position on the bed and tilted her arm towards the light from the fire and stared in shock, as Caroline did. On her wrists were large patches of inflamed red itchy bloated looking skin. She stared in shock more than fear and ripped the sleeve farther up her arm, remembering that her elbow had also been itchy. Sure enough, the same ominous patches, as big as pocket watches glared out from her otherwise white skin. She turned frightened eyes to the doctor, asking what, how, and why all in one look. He hadn't taken his eyes off the spots and breathed out a deep sigh of what sounded like disappointment and something else, something Caroline didn't like the sound of.

"Oh no."

* * *

"Holmes?"

"Yes, Watson?"

"What are you doing?"

The sick detective looked over to his companion who stood in the doorway to his flat, noting the slight lean onto his good leg before turning his attention back to his work.

"Perusing some papers, matching signatures-"

"I mean out of bed," Watson interrupted. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Your medical skills know no bounds, Watson," he said, abruptly turning and flashing that deceptive smirking smile. "I'll be right as rain by the morning. In fact I can feel the antibodies doing their work as we speak."

"You are _not_ feeling better."

"Am so," Sherlock said with a muffled cough.

John strode across the room and made to haul the man up by the arms like a child if he had to. "You're a terrible liar, Holmes. Now, get back to bed."

"You're spending an awful amount of time seeing to our needs. What of Mrs. Watson? What has she to say in all this?"

John frowned. "You needn't worry about that. Mary's off visiting with her parents. She won't be home for another two weeks."

"Ah." A sliver of relief sliced through his hazy mind, but that was only the influence of the fever, surely.

Watson leaned over him and spoke in what Holmes knew was the last of his patience, infused with a little of his military experience for show. "Get. In. Bed. Now."

Holmes sighed, inwardly admitting his mind was of no use in this sluggish state. "Yes, yes. No need to be so bossy, mother hen."

He wrapped his dressing robe around himself and stood up with relative ease. Although he wanted to say something to the effect of 'I am not a complete invalid,' for the sole sake of having some personal room to get to his bedroom unassisted, the thought died the moment his balance betrayed him in the slightest. Predictably, John steadied him and didn't let go until he was crawling back under his comfortable mountain of blankets. He had successfully kept the coughing fit inside until then.

"Still the dry cough," John asked, helping him settle in.

"Regrettably."

"Pray it stays that way. Pneumonia is not a laughing matter."

"Neither is this blasted fever. I can't think Watson-It's completely hateful."

John smirked at Sherlock's complaining and went to stoke the fire.

"Yes, well, be happy you have medicine on your side of things."

"Is our dear landlady giving you trouble, Watson," Sherlock asked, turning his back to the rest of the room, sounding disinterested. "Clarkie's only down the street around this time of day."

"No, it's no trouble of her own doing. Just her poor body's intolerance to the only thing known to doctors that can reduce a fever."

Sherlock stilled and turned around in bed. "An allergy?"

John nodded. "I watched the rashes blow up myself. Poor girl. She'll have a much rougher go of it than you have. You're apologizing to her once this thing is over, by the way."

Sherlock frowned. "Do have some faith in my character, Watson. Not one of my shining moments, I'll give you-but in my defense-"

"The fever, yes, we know-now, do us all a favor and rest!" Watson put the poker back with a clang and crossed the room to sit down in a chair by Sherlock's bedside. But before he could get there the detective noticed faint creases around his eyes and forehead.

"Go have a lie down, old boy. Your leg needs it."

Watson flashed him a suspicious look. "Not until you're asleep, I think."

Holmes huffed. "As you correctly deduced, and I admit I am not yet feeling up to bouncing around as you say I normally do-though bouncing isn't quite the term I'd use-I am still sick with this virus. I don't think either of us will see me up for the next few hours, so do have a thought to trust me when I say I am staying put."

John leveled a calculating gaze on him. A rather pleasant surprise he would have marveled in had the room not started spinning again. "I think you about tired yourself out telling me all that, didn't you?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock groused. But that made Watson smile, so mission accomplished.

"Sleep well, old cock. I'll come and check on you in a couple of hours."

* * *

Two days after that saw Holmes on the mend with only a slight fever and few symptoms to complain of. Caroline, however, was completely bedridden with body aches, a splitting headache, and chills despite the warm temperature of the room. Without the painkiller to temper the symptoms, what would have normally passed by as nothing more than a cold was instead a full-blown rush of crippling sickness. If there was a point where a blissfully comfortable bed turned into a lumpy insufferable mat, she had already passed it.

The doctor came to check on her from time to time, sorry for offering nothing more than a cool washcloth and some water. But her sudden allergy was not his fault. And though neither one of them could explain it, she still found herself angry that it happened in the first place. She could remember taking it when she was a little girl for colds and such. Why she would be allergic to it now was a complete mystery. A frustrating one at that.

As the day wore on into night she could hear the two men below, probably settling into bed, then nothing beyond the crackling of the fire in her room. She tried to sleep. She tossed and turned, growing more uncomfortable and weak by the moment. Sometime late into the night she started shaking and shivering from the cold. She looked up to find the fire roaring as it had been when she fell asleep, and beneath four layers of clothing and blankets it felt as if someone had let a blustery winter chill into her room.

She tried burrowing further into the warmth of her bed and when that failed she resolved herself to crawling across the floor to sit in front of the fire. She shrugged on her dressing robe and curled into a ball in front of the flames but found no comfort. She tried to stand but nearly fell from the dizziness and weakness. All of this was both frustrating and frightening, She had never in her life felt this weak and vulnerable, so completely feeble and truly dependent on someone else's aid. And what was more frightening was that she wanted someone to help her-needed someone, desperately.

"Help," she breathed, unable to find the strength to put behind her call. "He-elp?"

No one.

Not a sound.

She moaned aloud, though it was quiet, at her misfortune. Perhaps if she got to the hallway…But getting to the door was hard enough. An irrational amount of fear filled her chest and spurred her onwards, giving her a shaky strength to open the door, crawl onto the landing and somehow get down to the second floor, unseemly as it may have appeared. She couldn't be alone. She didn't want to be alone. If she stayed alone something would surely happen. Something bad.

When she opened the door to the flat there was no one there. So she crawled, on her hands and knees, to the fire in the sitting room. A terrible feeling of dread swept through her, making her believe she was at death's door under all the pain, discomfort, and haziness. If this was indeed what dying felt like, then she was afraid. She was terrified.

* * *

He woke after another round of tossing and turning and failing to find a comfortable position in which to fall asleep. All he'd been doing for the past fifty-eight hours or so (not counting the misery he spent prior to Watson's heroic entrance) was sleeping. Resting. Lying upon this detestable piece of furniture that held empty promises of relaxation and recuperation. Sherlock scoffed, then immediately regretted it after suffering a round of sneezes and a horrid amount of bodily congestion.

Watson, thankfully, hadn't woken in his state of vulnerability, due to his exhaustion and still aching leg-Holmes knew this by the occasional wince and shift in position during his sleep. But that didn't mean another fit wouldn't drag the poor man from his much-needed rest. So Holmes dragged himself out of bed, pulled on his robe and went to find some distraction in the other room to tire him out, yet again.

He hadn't set foot beyond the threshold of the sitting room when he found it, huddled…or rather bent over in front of the fireplace, on his tiger rug, shaking to the point of convulsions. The closer he got the more his mind struggled to wake up. He knew that form, that bundle of red hair, but not the crying-or was it gasping-and most definitively not the pitiful sounds of discomfort.

He laid a single hand on her back and her head slowly turned. Her face was a ghostly white, bordering on a tinge of yellow or sickly green in the dim light of the room. Her eyes were bloodshot and glassy, as well as unfocussed, but when they locked onto his, he got more than a taste of what she was experiencing. The shaking still had yet to cease-in fact, it may have gotten minutely worse in the past couple of minutes.

"C-cold," she moaned, out loud. "It's-It's-cooold-please..."

Besides the obvious fact that it was sweltering in the room, complaining of a chill did not sound like a good thing. At all.

"Watson," Sherlock shouted.

In the short time it took the doctor to wake and reach the two by the fire, Sherlock had wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him in a way that would allow her the best position to share his body heat in the meantime. That shaking was simply unacceptable, and it lessened a little, releasing some of the stiff muscles in her small body. He'd already gotten a read of her pulse by the time Watson was checking for it.

"Too fast," he muttered.

"I know," Watson growled.

She whimpered and tried to struggle out of Sherlock's arms, probably to get away from all the hands and warm appendages that she could suddenly feel on her (for such was the logic of the worst of fevers), but she didn't get far. Her eyes became wild in her poor attempts and some strength seemed to return to her, but John, thankfully, was quick to Sherlock's defense and grasped her tossing head in both of his hands, trying to catch her attention.

"Lydia-Lydia! Look at me-listen to me. You need to calm down, do you understand? Calm down. Just calm down."

"Am I go-ing to d-die," she rasped.

It was no surprise to Sherlock, so when Watson turned an astonished look to him, his mind took a second to catch up. He'd known for a while, of course. And he'd been planning on telling Watson sooner or later. But, he supposed, this served the situation much better.

"Did she just-?"

"Later, old boy-She's freezing-"

This time it took the doctor a second, but he sprung into action and returned with the blankets from Holmes' bed.

"This is not proper by any means," Watson whispered. "But it serves the purpose, rather you do."

"Noted," Sherlock said, pulling her closer to him under the warmth and settling his hands above the blankets so he wouldn't be completely suffocated. John placed a hand against her head and the seriousness on his face told Holmes all he needed to know about the girl's condition.

"Should we get her to Barts?" Holmes asked.

John sighed. "They're overrun, Holmes. She wouldn't get past the front door."

"An ice bath, then?"

"We don't have the resources here. And…I'm not so certain it would help, not now that it's so advanced."

"Devil things they are anyway. The shock would certainly kill her. The alternative?"

To his surprise, John rose and started to slowly pace in front of the door, as if he had to think about their next move. Though his mind wasn't completely recuperated yet, Holmes knew that Watson wasn't debating between choices. He was looking, grasping for one.

"John."

He stopped pacing and looked at Holmes. For one heart-stopping moment Sherlock thought he saw a look of defeat cross those features, but the light tricked his eyes and revealed resignation a second later.

"We'll have to keep her as warm as we can and hope…pray that fever breaks. It's already too high. If I'd known it would be this bad…"

"It will break," Holmes said with confidence.

Watson shook his head as he offered a false smile. "You're not even a doctor and you're so certain."

Holmes shifted to lessen the weight on his lower back while keeping a tight hold of the smaller person clinging to him. Then he looked John Watson dead in the eye and made sure his words struck home. "I am certain in your medical skills as a doctor and survival skills as a soldier. Both of which make for an exceptional physician and we are in desperate need of one at the moment, are we not?"

John closed his eyes and nodded, opening them a second later with the burning resolve that Sherlock was used to seeing.

* * *

In the time it took him to completely cover the pair by the fire in the sitting room and make them as comfortable as possible with what pillows he could find on the second floor, Sherlock had followed Lydia into a light slumber. John tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his leg, but after his third trip to the loo for fresh water and clean washcloths, he finally decided to allow himself a short catnap. When he returned and set the bowl and towels aside, he settled down into an armchair opposite the sleeping pair. He almost groaned aloud at the relief his body has been screaming for during the past couple of days…few days…however long it had been.

John snapped awake, hours later. He looked over to Holmes and Lydia, both still sound asleep. He got himself up and checked Lydia first, noting that some of her color had returned. Then when he felt for her temperature, he couldn't help but laugh instead of sigh in relief. Despite the amount of sweat, she was much cooler.

"The fever," Holmes murmured in question.

"You were right. Again."

Sherlock smirked in his half-waking state. "I usually am."

Once dawn broke over London, John went about the task of warming up Lydia's room since the fire had gone out sometime in the night. He was in the middle of pulling the coverlet back onto the bed after changing the bed sheets when Holmes cleared his throat by the door. In his arms was the sleeping girl, blissfully ignorant to John's sudden ire.

"How did you?-Nevermind, bring her in."

Holmes wasted no time and together they had her settled in with no fuss. His nose picked up the faint floral smell from her hair, still soft after days of matted bed rest, and he found himself searching the confines of his cranium to place the smell and find out why he thought it so pleasant. But he soon stopped when it was something else that started to overpower his senses.

"Funny how a room spins so easily when you're ill," the detective muttered.

Watson frowned and sent a scathing glare at his companion. "That's because you carried yourself and another person up a flight of stairs, you idiot. Sit down on the bed before you fall down."

"Hardly proper-"

"What's not proper is me manhandling you out of this room and back down a flight of stairs on a bad leg. Now, sit."

Holmes happily and wearily obliged. After checking the girl's temperature again Watson descended to the kitchen in search of some food. Sherlock cracked his neck with a sigh of satisfaction and leaned back against a post at the foot of the bed to wait. It didn't take long for her to wake up, and when she did, he was happy to see a measure of awareness present.

"I would say welcome back to the land of the living but for the obvious fact that you hadn't left us."

Lydia smiled. 'How are you feeling,' she signed.

"I? I, as it would seem, am on the mend. But it is you that we should be examining after last night."

'Last night?'

Sherlock looked at her. "You don't remember, do you? Or perhaps you do. You thought it was a dream."

Her eyes grew big and she thought for a moment before replying. 'That was real?'

"Quite real, my dear. And for that, I have something to return to you."

He pulled not one but all the pens he had confiscated from her out of his pocket, reached over, and deposited them on the bed beside her. She looked on with barely concealed shock. Then, when she collected herself, she raised a hand to press against her throat.

"I…spoke," she asked.

"That you did," he replied, softly.

She took a deep breath before continuing. "What…was-the point?"

"You thought your voice was lost. One day you stopped talking altogether, not by inability but by choice. I learned this quite early on in your employment here. You, of course, were not aware of it but from the moment we met you have been begging me to help you find it again."

She bit her bottom lip and struggled to keep calm, and keep from crying. He could tell she wanted to disagree, to argue that he was making things up, but she remained silent, with eyes stuck on something across the room.

He took a deep breath and steeled his thoughts, knowing that what he would say next needed to be said. "What you've done with the boys is…acceptable. I've been limited in what I can teach for some time, partly due to time and partly because I couldn't stand the thought of letting them down if I had to reschedule. The work of a consulting detective is far from consistent to say the least."

She nodded, seemingly understanding his point.

"And I…I've been," He stopped to clear his throat and risk a quick glance out the door to make sure he wouldn't be overheard. Funny thing was she was already speaking when he opened his mouth.

"I for-give you," she whispered.

"What," he croaked.

She grimaced after rubbing her throat and switched to signing again. 'What you said was because of the fever. '

"You…"

'I forgive you, yes.'

A soft knock sounded from the door. "Feeling better," Watson asked.

"Much," Caroline said. "Thank-you."

"Don't thank me yet, you're both still fighting off the after effects and I want to be sure you make full recoveries."

A pregnant silence followed. Holmes' eyes darted between Lydia and John, noting with not a small glimmer of glee that things were about to get very interesting. But, leave it to Watson to be the patient one-perhaps he was waiting for the bait.

"You're curious," Holmes stated.

John quirked an eyebrow and looked between Lydia and Holmes for an answer. "Perhaps a little more than curious."

"Understandably so. It's not everyday that a supposed mute regains the power of speech. But then again, you're not really a mute, are you, Ms. Collins?"

Lydia lifted her head and shook it, admitting what had already been let out of the bag. But Holmes wasn't done there, not without a real explanation. She gave him a look, the same she did before when she guessed where his train of thought was going. There was a strange feeling that bloomed in his chest under that scrutiny, small, but most certainly new. And interesting.

'You know of my condition?'

"Spasmodic Dysphonia. A disorder of the voice in which muscle spasms often hinder a person's normal pattern of speech. But you're already familiar with this, aren't you, Watson?"

"Well, I…I knew a girl, a patient, once who had the same disorder."

"Really," Holmes enquired with a shark's eye. "Do tell."

Watson waved a hand dismissively. "What's to tell? It was years ago. As a matter of fact she would be…ah, right about your…"

"Take care, Boswell," Holmes whispered. "And observe."

A few moments passed. Then a few more. The girl began to look at Watson the same way he was looking at her. But it was his Watson who had reached the conclusion before she did. His eyes widened, and Holmes wasn't so sure Watson would speak for all the staring and open-mouthed gaping that was going on.

"Oh my God," he whispered. "Your name isn't Lydia Collins…"

"Spot on," Holmes said, before turning to her. "If you wouldn't mind, dear, might we have your real name now?"

A myriad of emotions and thoughts passed through her face, as the two men waited on bated breath for their answer. When it came it was confident, and not at all fearful nor hesitant.

"Caroline Andr-rews," she said.

* * *

**A/N: So, Caroline's allergic to aspirin…I personally am allergic to Tyelnol and Advil and due to my family history (which also involves a deathly aspirin allergy) I can't take anything over the counter, nor some of the prescription stuff…actually nobody knows what I can take which is just peachy. Since I didn't find any other kind of painkiller used in Victorian times I thought I'd keep things simple here. Needless to say my allergies suck and they are completely annoying and uncomfortable, but let me tell you-what Caroline experienced here? Girl got off easy. **

**Anyway, Happy Thanksgiving again! Thankful for my readers, reviewers, and supporters for this past year. I hope all is well with all of you and I hope to hear from you soon. Next chapter in a couple of weeks!**


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